


Grasping at Shadows

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-25 13:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12531968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: CATEGORY: A Phrack Reunion Fic AND travelling home fic.Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.Aesop (~550 BC)PROMPTS:They take London by storm, never stopping for breath or to wonder what was next. And when the calendar can no longer be denied, they decide to head home. Neither one of them considered the fact that they haven’t been back in Paris since the end of the war.For the prompts:“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” and "The only journey is the one within."(Rainer Maria Rilke)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hot_elf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hot_elf/gifts).



> This is my final ficathon fic to repost. Because the chapters are longer and there's some formatting issues and typos I'm HOPING I catch this time around, this will likely take a few days as I post by Part.

## Part I: Chapter One

* * *

But I love your feet  
only because they walked  
upon the earth and upon  
the wind and upon the waters,  
until they found me.

—Pablo Neruda, “Your Feet”

* * *

_“Open your hands and close your eyes.”_

_Jack looks up from his desk, tossing his pen on top of the report of Eugene Fisher’s arrest._

_“I’m not a child, Miss Fisher.”_

_“I should hope not. Now open your hands, and no peeking.”_

_Curious and too tired to quibble—he would bend eventually, as he always does for her (mostly) harmless games—he obediently shuts his eyes and offers up his palms. A soft click as she opens her handbag, then silk is draped across his hand and something heavier is nestled in the middle. Jack opens his eyes._

_It’s a silk handkerchief, and in the middle is a swallow pin. Not his. He lifts his eyes to her face, noticing the uncertainty._

_“The ill-gotten gains of your childhood?” he asks, and she nods in silent reply._

_“I thought it best to return it to constabulary care while I was abroad.”_

_“And what about lost property?”_

_An enigmatic smile is her only response as she sashays out the door._

_An airfield now, his swallow pin nestled on her scarf of orange and green, the wind rustling her usually smooth bob. He wants to run his fingers through it, taste the lipstick on her lips._

**__** _“Come after me.”_

Jack woke up; he always did before the dream ended. He wasn’t a man prone to fantasies—they did little but morph memories of real events, in his opinion—but this was becoming unbearable. He lay in the narrow bed, noting that the rolling on the ship was less than he’d grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. They must be in the channel then; they were due to arrive in London around noon, two days ahead of schedule, and Jack remembered the relative stillness of the channel waters from his previous journey.

He rose from the bed, remaking it neatly out of habit—the beds would be stripped and the bedding laundered, no doubt, but there was a familiarity in the routine. He washed and shaved, dressed with great care—layer upon layer until he was Jack Robinson once more—and packed away the last few things he had not done the night before, checking that the pin was still in the internal pocket of his valise. Then he headed towards the deck to spy his first sight of England in over a decade.

The deck was teeming with travellers; he nodded to a few he recognised from meals and on-board entertainments and found a place to lean against the rail. The autumn morning was cool, mist hanging onto the chalky hills of the South Downs as they passed. After a few minutes he stirred, heading to breakfast.

The month-long journey had been dull; without the distractions of work or the intellectual challenges he found in his off-duty pursuits (of which nightcaps with Miss Fisher most definitely topped the list), he had done very little. He was not a man designed to be idle. On the other hand, there was the distinct possibility that the remaining eight weeks of his long service leave was about to be hijacked by a raven-haired temptress with a penchant for trouble, and he’d soon find himself longing for these quiet days.

He finished his meal in silence, while all around him groups of travellers practically hummed with the excitement of being so near their destination; Jack found he’d rather keep his own counsel regarding what he hoped to find in London. There’d been letters sent both directions, no doubt crossing each other some time in transit: Jack’s was an almost formal acceptance of her invitation and an outline of his itinerary, with the understanding that she was free to rescind her offer. Miss Fisher’s was a photograph of her standing on the wing of her plane, blowing a kiss to the camera. _You’ll never catch up at this rate_ , she had scrawled across the back.

He took an earlier boat.

And now they were almost in London, and the moment of truth was at hand and all those cliches. He thought it would be far more terrifying than it was; regardless of what greeted him in London—metaphorically, with the change in schedule he hardly expected to literally be met—he was certain that Miss Fisher had not issued her invitation lightly. That was enough.

—————

Phryne was vaguely aware of another person in her bedroom, and managed to rouse exactly enough to open one eye and stare at the maid in disbelief.

“You said, miss, nine o’clock,” the girl practically chirped.

“No person means nine o’clock when they say nine o’clock,” Phryne objected. “It means to wake me at half past ten and fake regret for being so late.”

“Yes, miss,” the woman curtsied. Where did her mother find these women? “Shall I bring your breakfast back to the kitchen then?”

The breakfast in question hit Phryne’s nose at just that moment and her stomach grumbled. Well, she’d been out dancing absurdly late last night and replenishing her resources was just common sense. And she did have an awful lot to do today, to clear her schedule for Jack’s arrival. The mere thought made her smile broadly, and she sat up with sudden enthusiasm.

“Leave it, Emma,” she directed. “I’m famished.”

Emma brought the tray over, and Phryne tucked in with vigour; the maid began to move around the room, opening curtains and asking Phryne’s opinion on the outfits for the day.

“The weather looks quite nice,” Phryne said, “so perhaps that lovely new one?”

Emma produced the dress on demand, a simple drop-waist number in a burnt russet, the only detail a subtle zigzag pattern around mid thigh and a back that plunged just far enough to scandalise old biddies over tea.

“Isn’t this meant for an evening, miss?”

Phryne waved her hand.

“There’s not nearly enough beading for that, Emma,” she said dismissively. “I’ll wear a fur with it, if you’re that worried.”

“It’s not my place to be worried, miss.”

“But you are. There’s no use denying it. But I wish to wear the dress and I certainly don’t wish for you to have a tragic accident with it before I have the chance, so I’ll capitulate with the stole and you’ll have a good story the next time you speak with the help of another household.”

“Oh, miss, I couldn’t—”

“Nonsense. A good gossip can be quite restorative, provided you keep your employer’s secrets closely guarded. But ‘The Honorable Miss Fisher scandalises her dining companions’ is merely an amusing anecdote, and as such I expect you to deploy it in your times of need.”

Emma blushed and ducked her head.

“The cream mary janes?” she asked.

“An excellent choice!” Phryne proclaimed, chewing another slice of toast. “If you lay it all out, I can dress myself after my morning bath. Can you ensure it’s run and almost hot enough to scald, please? And use the honeysuckle salts, please.”

“Yes, miss,” Emma said, ducking her head once more before leaving the room.

Phryne considered the day before her; there was a visit to a salon to pick up some truly sensuous lingerie she had ordered the week before, lunch with friends, several visits to various matrons of society for business or fundraising conversations, then dinner with Guy and Isabella. Just a casual meal between the three of them, which was good because it was unlikely she’d have a chance to return home and change into a dinner dress.

Keeping busy kept her mind from wandering too much to Jack’s arrival. It was utterly absurd, but the mere thought of it sent a fluttering in her stomach and a soft smile on her face; she had missed him. More than she had missed the creature comforts of her own home with her own staff, or Mac who she had been separated from before for years without the tiniest hitch in their relationship. It occurred to her that this was the longest they had been apart since they had met; even the incident after Gertie Haynes’ murder had been less time. His presence wasn’t a _necessity_ —Phryne didn’t go in for that sort of nonsense—but his absence was keenly felt. It brought to mind the moment she had cut her hair short; it had taken weeks to adjust to the length, only in this case she was reaching for it more and more...

Oh, that was dreadful. She hadn’t had enough sleep or enough tea to be making metaphors. The point was, she had missed him far more than she expected to or cared to examine. She’d drive herself mad if she didn’t keep her schedule packed with distractions. Giving a sigh of disgust, she climbed out of bed and drew a robe around her. Bath. Another cup of tea while she browsed the mail and spoke with her mother. Then out for the day. 

—————

Jack double-checked the address on the small townhouse in Mayfair, which likely cost a sum of money he’d never see in his life. He was not a poor man by any stretch of the imagination, but there was well-off and then there was Wealthy. Not that this was new information, but it did give him the briefest moment of hesitance before striding up the few stairs. Well, Miss Fisher knew who he was and if a difference in finances was all it took to drive a wedge between them, the fault most certainly did not lie with him.

He knocked on the door, ignoring the decorative knocker for the familiar rap drilled into him by years as a police officer. A butler answered, and Jack introduced himself and asked to speak with Miss Fisher. The butler glanced at the trunk and valise beside him.

“Is Miss Fisher expecting you?”

“Yes. Well, not today. I’ll be checking into a hotel, of course…” Jack stumbled.

“Davies, who is it?” called a voice from another room. Female, not Phryne, Jack’s mind filed away instantly.

“A gentleman caller for Miss Phryne, Lady Fisher,” the butler called back.

There was a huff and then footsteps, and a not-at-all refined mutter that Jack was pretty certain was ‘That blasted girl’; he quickly adopted a face of neutrality as the speaker came into view. Margaret Fisher was—to his surprise—tall, broad-shouldered, and loud.

“And he brought _luggage_ ,” she said, throwing her hands up in disgust. “If she insists on having these sorts of liaisons, clear communication is essential. Honestly.”

Jack removed his hat, more for something to do than any real deference.

“Lady Fisher, I do apologise. I thought to give my regards to Miss Fisher—”

“You’re Australian!”

“Ahh, yes…”

Bloody hell, he’d forgotten what the proper form of address was. A wonderful first impression.

“You’re that policeman she keeps dithering on about?”

“I certainly hope so, though it’s always hard to predict with Miss Fisher.”

And now he had just implied the woman’s daughter was… liberal with her affections. Which she _was_ , but that was a moot point; there was no judgment to attach to that, just—

Lady Fisher laughed.

“Davies, please bring the inspector’s luggage through to the guest room. The one across from Phryne’s room, save us all the pretense.”

Jack blushed furiously as Margaret’s assessing eyes—very much like her daughter’s—looked him over.

“Phryne’s out for the day, and we don’t expect her back until late—”

“I am quite capable of booking a hotel,” Jack said, hoping that ‘out for the day’ wasn’t some sort of aristocratic code for boudoir dalliances.There was a difference between knowing she likely had and having to sit idle while she did so.

“My daughter would never forgive me,” Lady Fisher said, waving a hand to dismiss his suggestion. “You’ll just have to be entertained by a dull old woman until she returns.”

“If you managed to raise a daughter like Miss Fisher, I believe that dull rather strains credulity,” Jack said, wishing he would just stop _talking_ before he made any enemy of the woman. 

“You are a flatterer, Inspector Robinson.”

“Please, call me Jack, Lady Fisher.”

She placed her hand on her hip and glared at him; definitely Phryne’s mother.

“Only if you call me Margaret. After all, we’re practically family.”

Jack was very glad they did not yet have tea, because he likely would have choked to death on it then and there. As it was, he managed to cover his horror with a small cough and a very deliberate taking of a seat in the parlour Lady Fisher had directed him to.

“You’re more skittish than a newborn colt,” Margaret said observantly. “Not quite the sort I expected Phryne to drag home with her, which means it _should_ have been exactly what I expected.”

Jack just took the tea offered by a maid—“Thank you, Emma,” Margaret said without even looking up, “that will be all.”—and considered his response carefully. Margaret beat him to it, smiling broadly.

“You’ll have to excuse my country manners. If you aren’t direct out there, heaven knows what people will think of you.”

Jack gave a wan smile and hoped he could recover his footing. He cast his mind about for a neutral topic.

“I spoke with your sister before travelling,” he said, “Mrs. Stanley sends her regards and a letter—”

Which was in his trunk. Upstairs. In the room across from Phryne’s.

“Later will more than suffice, Jack,” Margaret said. “I suspect that the letter contains dull news and a request to find my daughter a suitable husband before she utterly destroys Prudence’s reputation.”

“I believe Mrs. Stanley is exceedingly fond of Phr—Miss Fisher. At the very least she did once threaten to strip naked in solidarity, in front of two policemen and several doctors…”

Margaret guffawed at that, and Jack smiled sheepishly.

“And what about you, inspector?”

“I’ve yet to threaten public nudity for your daughter’s benefit.” 

“Private nudity is a different matter, I presume?” she asked archly.

“Presume what you like, though you’re likely to be disappointed.”

Margaret scrunched her nose in irritation, a look he had seen on Phryne’s face on occasion; it made him smile, at least until Margaret noticed and fixed him with a stare.

“And my daughter?”

“What of her?”

“You’ve come all this way for a notoriously fickle woman; what are you hoping to gain in this matter?”

Jack took a sip of his tea.

“Miss Fisher is aggravating, opinionated, and obstinate far too often for her own safety. But she’s not fickle. And any sentiments that my presence may or may not evoke are for her to declare.”

Margaret nodded appraisingly.

“You’re in love with her.”

“That can’t be a surprise, Lady Fisher.”

“I suppose not. But it’s a wonder you let her leave Australia in that case.”

Jack shrugged. “She’s not a child. She owes me no consideration or commitment beyond the courtesies of our friendship.”

“That sounds a very weak sort of love.”

Jack was not surprised by her assessment, though he disagreed.

“I suppose it might sound so,” he said, “but I’ve found it to be remarkably resilient all the same.”

Margaret gave a sound that Jack thought might be approval, then placed her teacup down.

“Tell me, inspector, do you play draughts?”


	2. Chapter 2

## Part I: Chapter Two

* * *

 

Phryne trailed her fingers across the lingerie, a deep purple concoction that could easily kill a man. And oh, to _wear_ such an item; Phryne could already feel the silk against her skin, the smoothness gliding and teasing.

“All accounted for, Miss Fisher?” asked the salon owner, a Mrs. Hawthorne.

There were no French pretensions in England, of course; a matter of national pride.

“Absolutely divine,” Phryne said with a smile.

Mrs. Hawthorne quickly wrapped and boxed the item, and Phryne paid for the purchase and took the box to the motor car. Tossing it onto the seat beside her, she considered the options carefully. She could wear it beneath her clothing when she picked Jack up from the docks, lure him into some slightly naughty situation that would give him a glimpse of what lay beneath, watch him salivate. Or she could bring him home, sashay behind her changing screen, let him hear the change of clothes, and come out wearing nothing but the lingerie. He’d make that gobsmacked face, just for a moment, before settling into a confident smirk—she had dressed with him in mind as much as her own preferences. Then he would reach out, trail a finger down her neck, across her clavicle, just skirting the edge of the lingerie…

The unbearable clenching of her thighs at the thought brought her back to the moment. She was sitting behind the wheel of a car in the centre of London, knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel and nearly came at the mere fantasy of Jack Robinson. She dropped her head back against her seat, trying to catch her breath; this was ridiculous. Not only was she an experienced woman who knew better than such frivolities, but she was doing a real disservice to the real Jack with this sort of daydreaming. But oh, his wicked smirk as he would take her breast into his mouth—her thighs clenched again, she shifted against the seat almost imperceptibly in a desperate bid for relief, and mewled her pleasure at the tiny sensations that shot through her.

God damn it.

Phryne dropped her head to the steering wheel and breathed deeply. Lunch. She had a lunch to get through, and various commitments. Perhaps she could miss Guy and Isabella’s dinner, head home early and take distinct advantage of her box of… lover’s aids. She had a sinking suspicion a breathing bed partner wouldn’t quite scratch the itch she found herself with; if this is what Jack had driven her to at a distance, she almost didn’t want to contemplate what would happen when he was in the same damn country. Lunch first though; she raised her head and drove to the restaurant in Covent Garden, eyes steadfastly not drifting towards the carefully wrapped package on her passenger seat.

When she arrived she parked, shifting the lingerie box beneath the seat for safekeeping, then headed into the restaurant. Her friends were already seated, and Phryne requested a glass of champagne as she joined them. Miranda was a landscape artist, Sophia was the daughter of Margaret Fisher’s closest friend and a keen equestrian, and Harriet was a successful novelist. They were all bright, witty women with their own senses of adventure; Phryne had been looking forward to the meal since she’d arrived in England. The first course was taken up with bringing each other up to date with their latest news; Phryne was quite pleased to recount her flight from Melbourne to London, glossing over some of the less pleasant details. Harriet asked quite a few questions, claiming it gave her an idea for her next novel.

“Phryne, darling, whyever did this luncheon become so pressing?” Miranda asked as their main courses arrived. “If we’d waited until the weekend, Georgie could have joined us.”

Phryne leant forward, dropping her voice slightly. “I have a house guest arriving Thursday. Travel by ocean liner does make one so prone to illness, I thought it best to plan to spend at least three days in bed. To recover from the journey, of course.”

The other women laughed and turned their attentions to their meal, to Phryne’s relief. The idea of explaining why she had a house guest from Australia when she’d only just left herself… she found that she didn’t want to share. It was too personal a revelation.

An hour later, Phryne said her goodbyes and promised to attend Miranda’s gallery opening the following week. The rest of her afternoon was taken up by various meetings—a member of the London Adventuresses Club was attempting a solo flight to Melbourne and needed contacts in the city; a friend of Phryne’s mother was looking for a detective ‘of the highest discretion’ to attend a minor matter, which Phryne resolved before leaving the house; a potential investor in her father’s property needed reassurance of the profitability. As she was leaving her last appointment, she glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece and sighed. Guy and Isabella could wait; she was going to head back to the townhouse and… well, likely drive herself to distraction.

It had been fine, initially; the memory of the kiss on the airfield, or a waltz, or a hundred subtle touches that had occurred between them in the past few months—who was she kidding? She’d found him attractive the first time they met, and that was enough for the occasional fantasy—crossed her mind from time to time. More often once she landed in England, which was understandable—without the logistics of long-haul flying, she simply had more _time_ to remember Jack. And when his letter had arrived and she could hear his voice in the stiff formality, the careful guardedness even in the light of “come after me”, she’d thought of nothing else for a week. There’d been other lovers, but somehow—without ever having had Jack Robinson—they were _other_ lovers. The nearer it came to his arrival, the less interest she had had; the anticipation had driven her to solitude, of a sort.

She was in front of the little townhouse—a fashionable part of London, but small enough that her parents could run it with minimal staff—before she realised. Grabbing the wrapped box from beneath the seat, she strode up the stairs. Davies greeted her at the door, taking her fur stole and hat, then her package.

“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the parlour, miss,” he said, reaching for her handbag. “Your mother has invited him to stay.”

Phryne sighed as she headed to the parlour, wondering what absurd plan her mother had hatched now. She _knew_ Jack was due in, and while Phryne had been quiet about the specifics, she had to know that Phryne didn’t lure men halfway around the world for an evening’s entertainment when there were plenty of willing bodies closer to home. It would be just like Margaret to find the whole thing amusing and arrange for another guest.

In the parlour, Phryne could see her mother in one of the armchairs, and the top of the head of the gentleman caller over the back of another. Margaret was studying something before her; a draughts board, Phryne realised a second later. The irony was not lost on her.

“Good evening,” Phryne said.

Looking up, her mother smiled. “Phryne! You’re home early.”

The guest rose from the chair, and even without her full attention she recognised the slow unfolding of limbs and quiet stance.

“Jack!”

She had launched herself across the distance between them before her mind had properly registered who it was, laughing as he caught her around the waist and pulled her closer with a hand between her shoulder blades. She hadn’t intended to jump, but her feet were in the air and her arms firmly around his neck as she kissed him.

It was not a kiss that was a prelude to anything else; or perhaps it was a prelude to _everything_ else. Passionate, yes, but also certain. It was a kiss that said ‘Hello’ and ‘I’ve missed you’ and ‘We’re here’; it was a kiss she had no interest in ending. Which was, she had to admit, terribly impractical. She pulled away reluctantly, smiling as she loosened her grip just enough to slide to the floor.

"Hello Jack."

He tilted his head down to meet her gaze, and the affection she saw there was enough to leave her breathless. She’d known, of course, and no doubt was regarding him with an equally dumbstruck expression, but it was somehow still a surprise to be regarded with such _open_ adoration.

“Miss Fisher.”

She ran her hands down his arms, still holding her close, and realised he was in shirtsleeves; she hadn’t even noticed. He kissed her again then, with more intent, and they didn’t break apart until Phryne heard her mother’s deliberate cough. Feeling rather like a teenager who had been caught out with her beau, Phryne’s face flushed as she turned to face her mother and tugged the hem of her dress back into place. Jack kept his arm loosely around her.

“Evening, Mother,” Phryne said with feigned dutifulness.

“You failed to mention your guest was so proficient in draughts, Phryne.”

“He wasn’t, until I whipped him into a vague facsimile of a worthy opponent,” Phryne replied.

“Is that what happened?” Jack asked, obviously amused. “Because _I_ seem to recall a lot of mutinous muttering about how nobody could win three games in a row without cheating…”

“Which I stand by!” Phryne laughed, marvelling at the easiness in Jack’s demeanour. “You never took off your jacket for _me_ , though.”

“Perhaps, Miss Fisher, I knew the dangers inherent therein.”

Oh, his quiet words should not have _that_ much of an effect. And the intensity of his stare. She turned towards him again and moved to straighten his tie with a look of utter innocence.

“Danger? From me? I cannot imagine why you would think such a thing!”

“Well, he’s met you, for starters,” Margaret observed dryly. “Really, Phryne, all it takes is some liberally applied jam and you can get men out of all sorts of clothing.”

“My mother, Jack, is the absolute height of class and sophistication,” Phryne said, and he chuckled with a warmth she’d rarely heard before. A sudden thought struck her. “You are staying, aren’t you?”

It would be just like Jack to insist upon a hotel, and then they’d have to _find_ one, and she’d have to persuade him to let her stay as well, and there were the other hotel guests to consider… really, it would be terribly inconvenient.

“Lady Fisher already delivered my luggage to a guest room,” he replied, and Phryne turned to her mother in surprise.

“The blue room,” Margaret Fisher confirmed.

On the other hand, a hotel would be less horrifying than the self-satisfied smirk on her mother’s face….

—————

They held hands through dinner—“Here or with Guy and Isabella,” Phryne had said, and Jack chose the lesser of two evils—and then pressed against each other in the parlour after. Jack felt, rather absurdly, like a boy courting for the first time; to be in the home of Phryne’s parents—paid for, he presumed, by Phryne herself, but still distinctly the home of the elder Fishers—and attempting some degree of affability with her mother was an utterly bizarre sensation. Her father, thank heavens, was gone for several days. And all the while his mind was on a bedroom upstairs, made up for him though everyone knew he was unlikely to use it, and the hinted-at purchase Phryne had whispered into his ear.

“Purple silk,” she had said, “bought just today with you in mind.”

It was a bloody miracle that the sudden rush of blood from his head to a more prurient part of his anatomy hadn’t caused him to pass out into his soup.

At the earliest possibly opportunity, Phryne gave an exaggerated yawn and looked at the clock.

“It must be quite late for you, Jack, after all your travels.”

Margaret, seated across from them, snorted.

“Sleep well, the both of you,” she said, “and I’ll presume any untoward noises I hear this evening are the neighbours’ cats fighting again.”

Jack wondered whether it was possible to die from sheer embarrassment. Or possibly lust, if the smirk on Phryne’s face was indicative of anything. Regardless, Jack stood—hands clasped very carefully over the front of his trousers—and followed Phryne up the stairs. She motioned to a door.

“Your room, if you need to retrieve anything,” she said. “Toothbrush, pyjamas if you’re the sort that insists on sleeping in them, etcetera.”

He nodded, suddenly shy. It felt so… deliberate. Not forced, per se, but contrived, perhaps. Phryne caught his shift in mood, because she leant up to kiss his cheek.

“Come to my bedroom for a nightcap,” she offered.

“Just a nightcap?” he teased; this was familiar territory, at least.

“It’s too early to be a dangerous hour.”

“Then I’ll have to linger.”

She smiled with a sweetness that surprised him, and brushed against the buttons of his vest.

“Linger all you like,” she purred. “But give me ten minutes.”

Jack nodded, retreating to the guest bedroom and gathering the items he would need. He briefly considered bringing the swallow pin with him, but it felt too much like a statement for their first night together. The ease of that thought surprised him; he did not know exactly what they would look like going forward—he loved her too much to ever expect her to forsake her independence, but he also knew that a casual affair was not sustainable given his own inclinations—but that was for the future. They could forge through it when it arrived. For now he had an evening with Phryne Fisher and the promise of purple silk.

He strode through the bedroom door and knocked on the one across the corridor.

“Come in,” she called, and Jack opened the door and stepped through.

She was reclining against her pillows, a glass of whiskey in each hand, and wrapped in robe of silver.

“Hello Jack,” she said.

He dropped his belongings on a chair by the door and crossed the room with long strides, taking one of the tumblers from her grasp and placing it on the drinks tray, then eyed the smooth expanse of skin at her neck.

“May I?” he asked, voice husky as he sat on the edge of the bed.

She lolled her head back, and he pressed a line of soft kisses against her throat, feeling the vibration as she sighed, and made his way to the tender skin behind her ear; she gasped sharply. Then he withdrew, picking up his glass and sipping his whiskey; Phryne responded in kind, then placed both tumblers on the table. Taking his wrist gently, she guided it to her waist; Jack stretched his hand across the silk, luxuriating in the material beneath his hand, and leant forward for another kiss. It was slow. Steady. Inevitable.

“It’s been awhile,” he murmured against her lips.

“I have to admit that I had some idea, knowing you,” she chuckled, laying a hand against his neck to hold him close. “You’re not worried, are you?”

Smiling, he kissed her again, with more intensity.

“Not worried,” he assured her before smiling wryly, “but perhaps overthinking the matter.”

“Stop thinking,” she ordered. “It will happen. How was your journey?”

It was a distraction, he knew, an attempt to set him at ease. So he replied between kisses—he’d spent a lot of time in the pool, which seemed to please her, and caught up on his reading. He talked about various ports, lamenting that they had been unable to go ashore in Aden; he had been looking forward to the gardens. She countered with stories of her own journey, skirting around her travelling companion. It was, remarkably, much like any evening conversation, just with more tongues involved.

Around the time he was outlining his stop in Cairo his hand slipped beneath the edge of her robe; catching a glimpse of purple, he swallowed hard. Phryne took the opportunity to sit up, divesting him of his tie and waistcoat and then untying her own robe and letting it fall open.

Women’s lingerie had either changed far more than he had realised, or Phryne’s clothing designer was a bloody genius. There were criss-crossing straps, and sheer panels on her tap pants, and good god he could see the shape of her already erect nipples through the fabric; he had a sudden and fervent wish that he could actually make it through the evening without making an utter arse of himself.

“It’s even better if you _feel_ it,” she said. “This is the finest quality silk.”

He reached out, cupping one breast; Phryne arched into his touch. So responsive. His mouth went dry, and he took another sip of whiskey.

“A bit of courage?” she teased.

He silenced her with a hungry kiss, then turned his attention to the lingerie. For all the appearance of complicated, removal was simple; soon enough she was naked before him, beautiful and wanton and he wanted her with an intensity that left him speechless. Wanted to explore every inch of her skin, taste her desire, hear her come undone around him. But mostly he wanted to _know_ her.

“This usually works better if we’re both naked,” she said, smiling softly and breaking his contemplation.

Jack stood, carefully removing his cufflinks and laying them beside the nearly empty whiskey glasses. She watched him eagerly, her hand exploring her own flesh as he undid the buttons on his shirt, shrugged out of his braces, removed his clothes and laid them neatly on the back of the chair of her dressing table. As he moved back to the bed, she reached for him; he caught her by the wrist and brought her hand to his mouth, swirling his tongue around her index finger. She sighed in approval, and he released the finger to explore the tender skin of her wrist. When she had become soft and pliant, he moved downward, coming to rest between her ankles. He lifted one foot, pressing featherlight kisses against the ankle bone and caressing the foot itself, moving upwards to her knee. Then he did the same for the other side, noticing the way she shifted at the small touches.

“I love your legs,” he whispered, turning his attention to the inside of her thighs. “So strong. So supple. So damned tempting as you sit on my desk.”

“Jack,” she exhaled.

He moved ever northward, and her use of his name became pleading.

“Patience, Miss Fisher,” he scolded, nuzzling the crook of her leg and breathing in her scent.

His hands slid upwards, across the well-toned tautness of her stomach, her breasts, back down her arms to tangle his fingers with hers. Only then did he shift his attentions where she wanted him; her hips thrust at the first press of his tongue. He pulled back and she emitted a low, keening whine. Emboldened by the sound—and taking great pleasure in the act—he returned, beginning a series of licks, suckles and gentle nips that had her body nearly humming with imminent release. He stopped.

“Ja-ack,” she protested, “there’s slow and then there’s torturous.”

He chuckled, releasing one of her hands; it immediately tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He moved his free hand between her legs, pressing one finger, and then a second, inside her; she arched off the bed in response, made some sort of whimper that he knew he would never be able to forget, every line in her body seeking release. He curled his fingers, still deep inside, and renewed his attentions to her clitoris.

She was surprisingly quiet when she came; a slight buck, a groan of his name, fingers tightening in his hair, and then it passed and she was languidly sprawled across the mattress.

“Jack,” she purred, tugging him up to taste herself in his mouth. One hand trailed down his chest to grip his cock, almost painfully hard. “May I return the favour?”

Jack shook his head.

“Another time,” he said. “I don’t think I can—”

She did _something_ —his attention was far too focused on the rest of her to notice exactly what—and he practically saw stars.

“In that case, inspector, I think you had better—”

“Your device?” he growled, looking down into her wickedly dancing eyes and hoping he could last long enough to do himself some credit.

“In place, of course,” she said, nearly prim in delivery.

He rested his head in the crook of her neck, felt her shift so they were aligned, and eased himself into her. When he was fully inside he paused.

“God, Phryne…”

He loved her so much. She stroked his back soothingly.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

—————

Phryne woke up slowly, mid-morning sun streaming through her windows. No Emma disturbing her today, then. Beside her, Jack was warm and still; she peeked through her lashes to find that he was still asleep. How unexpectedly _indulgent_. She ran her fingers through his incredibly soft hair, smiling when he stirred slightly. His eyelashes fluttered, his lips quirked, and he sighed as Phryne trailed her hand from his hair and across his cheek, feeling the morning stubble against her palm. Then she moved the sheets back to study his body in the daylight. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, which she had long suspected and confirmed the night before, and sinewy muscles. A light amount of chest hair—just enough to toy with—that trailed downward to the base of his cock. There was a scar on his left side, a few inches below his ribcage, that she would ask him about when she had a chance; for now she merely dipped her head to kiss it.

He hummed curiously as she touched the skin of his stomach; she glanced up to see a contented smile on his face, eyes still closed.

“Morning, Jack,” she said quietly. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Have you?” he rumbled from deep in his chest.

“Mmhm. I needed you to be awake,” she purred, stroking his half-hard cock playfully, “for this. If you’d like.”

“I do.”

She shifted lower and took him into her mouth, rousing him slowly, teasing him, pleasing him; his hands clenched at his sides when he finally came, and Phryne laughed.

“Your self-control is admirable, Jack, but entirely unnecessary in this case.”

He looked at her through hooded eyes, bright and playful, and motioned her upwards for a kiss.

“Is that so?”

“My bed has a strict ‘no reservations’ rule,” she told him, coming to straddle his thighs.

“Mm, but Miss Fisher there is a difference between reservations—which I find myself blissfully free from—and self-control,” he clarified, slipping his hand between them to stroke her clit.

“How long do I have you for?” she asked, moving in counter-motion to his questing fingers; the man was certainly talented.

He chuckled. “As long as you like, but I have to be back in Melbourne for the middle of December.”

“We’ll have to make the most of it, then, if we’re going to have to head home that soon.”

His fingers paused, so briefly she almost failed to notice, at her words.

“You’ll come back with me?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Of course,” she replied. “I’ve found that adventures are so much more satisfying when you can go home at the end.”

“I didn’t want to presume,” he admitted.

The pressure from his hand increased, and Phryne pushed against it. Her orgasm was building, low and tight, and she moaned.

“God, Jack, if you’re going to— _ohhh_ —going to do that…”

She lost her line of thought, heard him make some sort of witty retort about presumptions, kept moving in search of release; one of his fingers slipped further back, sliding inside her easily.

“Yes, yes,” she urged him on, thrusting faster, so close all she needed was a little more— “God, YES!”

She rode out the waves of her climax against his hand then collapsed, surprisingly boneless, against his chest.

“London won’t know what to do with us,” she smirked, feeling him press a kiss against her hair.

His stomach rumbled.

“Maybe we’ll start after lunch,” he suggested.

“Definitely after lunch,” Phryne agreed.

For the next two weeks, they took London by storm. Theatre and music events, high-society luncheons and dinner parties, museums and gallery openings, clubs Jack tried very hard not to question the legality of—they did it all without stopping for breath or to wonder what was next. But at night, when there was nothing but them, there was a tenderness in their lovemaking—slow or wild or playful, it didn’t matter—that Phryne would have run from, before Jack. Eventually the calendar could not be denied.

“We’ll fly to Paris, then Marseille,” Phryne suggested, “then catch the boat from there. I have a few friends I want to visit.”

“Sounds perfect,” he agreed.

Neither one of them considered the fact that they hadn’t been back in Paris since the end of the war.


	3. Chapter 3

## Part II: Chapter Three

* * *

“They looked at each other and laughed, then looked away, filled with darkness and secrecy. Then they kissed and remembered the magnificence of the night. It was so magnificent, such an inheritance of a universe of dark reality, that they were afraid to seem to remember. They hid away the remembrance and the knowledge.”

―D. H. Lawrence, _Women in Love_

* * *

They arrived at an airfield in northern France on a Tuesday afternoon; their landing was rocky, but Phryne leapt from the cockpit with an ease that made Jack smile. The wind whipped her hair around her face, cheeks ruddy from the flight. Jack descended more slowly, firmly replacing his hat—clutched in his hands for most of the journey—on his head, then cupped the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss.

“You enjoyed the flight then?” she asked when he dropped his hand and pulled away.

“Hated every minute of it,” he confessed, tugging her towards him by her scarf for another kiss. It was short and sweet, affectionate; the freedom to kiss her in such a manner was exhilarating. “But worth it. You were magnificent.”

“I usually am,” she replied, waving to someone behind Jack. “Let me get her in the hangar and I can show you _magnifique_.”

Jack stepped aside, watching her converse with the—he presumed—airfield attendant, then roll her plane into the nearby hangar and perform post-flight checks. When it was done she waved to him and he rejoined her.

“Bernard’s arranged for us to have a car,” she said. “We’ll spend the evening with my friend Marie, then fly into Paris tomorrow morning after breakfast, presuming you can face it.”

“It’ll be a long drive to Marseille if I can’t,” he said lightly, grabbing one of the bags of luggage.

Phryne grabbed the other, then led him out the hangar door and towards a waiting car. She tossed her bag in the back seat haphazardly; Jack placed his with precision, then adjusted hers.

“You’re so fastidious,” she laughed, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Miss Fisher, I fully expect that you have a loaded pistol in that bag, and I’d rather not be shot when we hit a bump in the road.”

“Oh, not even I am _that_ careless. The last thing I want is it going off in mid-air when I hit a bit of wind.”

Jack just shook his head and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Take this map,” Phryne directed, handing one over. “I’ve marked the airfield and Marie’s place, so just tell me where to go.”

Jack opened the map, considering it carefully. Wondered, briefly, about the likelihood of Phryne actually following his instructions and decided that she’d probably declare a shortcut before the second turn—he mapped out a variety of alternate routes in his head. He’d always had a knack for that, actually; it had served him well during the war.

“Left out of the gate, Miss Fisher, and then the first right,” he said, settling back into his seat.

Phryne’s friend was a good forty-five minute drive, regardless of route or attempted breaking of speed limits. It was almost pleasant at first, but as they got further from the airfield, Jack began to notice unnatural rolls and pits in the countryside. Trench lines, he realised, and craters from shelling; grass had grown over most of it, but there was no mistaking the scars war had left behind. At the first cemetery they passed—maybe forty crosses in the middle of a farmer’s field—he closed his eyes, tipping his hat down over his face, and pretended to fall asleep. The less he saw of the landscape, the less he would remember.

The drive did end, eventually, without Phryne needing his guidance once. Parking the car outside a small cottage, she came around his side and gently shook him; he shifted his hat back and smiled when he saw the eagerness in her eyes.

“I haven’t seen Marie since we were in the ambulance corps,” she said, tugging at his hand. “She settled in the countryside with one of the nurses, has a dog named D’Artagnan, and a whole flock of chickens.”

“Sounds like your idea of hell,” teased Jack.

“There are worse ways to end the war,” she said soberly, then lightened again, “and her recipe for frog legs is perfection.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Jack said, only half-joking. “I avoid it for years, but get you close to so much as a _bonjour_ and I’m eating snails and frogs.”

“It’s fine, Jack. Tastes like chook, you’ll hardly even notice.”

He gave her a somewhat weak smile. “I’m sure I’ve eaten—or not eaten—worse than that.”

She tugged his hand again, and he climbed out of the car. The cottage door opened, and a thin blonde woman waved at them.

“Come along then, Jack,” Phryne said. “Marie is waiting.”

—————

“Phryne!” exclaimed Marie. “ _Allo, ma cherie_.” 

Phryne rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You’ve clearly gone native. How is Brigitte?”

“Tending the garden, as per usual,” Marie said, then turned her gaze to Jack and held out her hand. “Marie Stoppard, Australian by way of Yorkshire and now French by habit. Nobody can place the accent. You must be Jack?”

Jack was holding his hat before him, but freed a hand to shake hers. “Jack Robinson, yes. Miss Fisher’s…”

They had agreed to travel as an engaged couple, for simplicity’s sake—a compromise between the utter scandal of no commitment and the undesirable legal attachment, and guaranteed to be a bit of fun—but he was obviously uncertain whether that extended to their stopover. Phryne hooked her arm through his and kissed his cheek.

“…friend,” he finished weakly.

“Phryne and I, we are friends,” said Marie, waving her hand at them. “You are clearly the noble romantic she pined for throughout the war.”

Jack chuckled.

“I doubt that very much,” he said with a shake of his head. “Miss Fisher is hardly the pining type.”

Marie laughed loudly, pleased by his assessment; Phryne remembered that she’d always been fond of giving people just enough rope to hang themselves.“You’ll do. Come in. Cup of tea?”

“Yes, please,” Jack said, then turned to Phryne. “Miss Fisher?”

“Please,” Phryne said, “and a biscuit if you have any.”

Marie shrugged. “What did I always say? If I survive the war, there’s biscuits and cakes every day.”

It had been a game to pass the time—what would you never go without, once the war was over? Marie had been fond of biscuits. Phryne had committed herself to young and beautiful company. A third member of the ambulance company had sworn she’d wear silk stockings every day; she’d died in the influenza outbreak shortly after the war was over.

Still, Phryne had not visited Marie to be melancholy; she gave herself a mental shake.

“How are your family?” she asked.

Marie shrugged again as she led them through to a small sitting room full of plants. “Still do not understand why I remain in France. Yours?”

“France is not nearly far enough,” Phryne laughed. “Jack?”

He looked up from a blossoming plant he was steadfastly examining, giving them the pretense of privacy.

“This is a lovely poinsettia,” he said. “And very early to flower, I think?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid,” said Marie with an affectionate smile. “Brigitte is the gardener. Please, take a seat and I’ll get the tea.”

Brigitte—Marie’s opposite in every way, from height to mannerisms—came into the sitting room before Marie returned, kissing Phryne’s cheeks and smiling shyly at Jack, who attempted a muddled greeting in French.

“Thank you,” Brigitte said softly; seeing her in this environment, it almost beggared belief that she had been one of the most hard-headed, forthright nurses at the field hospital. The softness suited her, though Phryne could never abide being soft herself.

Marie came in with a tray a moment later, and the four of them talked for some time. Eventually they moved from the sitting room to the rustic kitchen while Marie cooked dinner. To Phryne’s surprise, Jack rolled up his sleeves and began to help prepare the vegetables—haricots verts and carrots.

“I didn’t know you cooked, Jack!” Phryne trilled, admiring the tanned forearms exposed by this development.

“And risk losing out on Mr. Butler’s dinners?” he replied with a smirk. “I’m not a fool, Miss Fisher.”

The conversation continued to be lively as the meal was cooked and served, and when Jack gamely tried his frog leg—Phryne hadn’t been lying about Marie’s recipe, but she’d also suggested it for her own amusement—he actually seemed to enjoy it.

“Better than snails?” Phryne asked.

_He’d tasted of garlic butter; she had probably tasted of fear._

No.

“Much, Miss Fisher,” he smiled, and her heart thudded almost painfully at the sight.

After the meal, cards were brought out, and wine; Phryne most definitely preferred the latter. As the hour grew later the conversation slowed, turned to people they had known during the war, more French coming to pepper the speech. Jack rose then, claiming a need for an early night, and gave Phryne a light kiss on the cheek before heading towards the guest bedroom.

Marie watched him go.

“I thought you had no time for young men in love?” she asked, when Jack was out of earshot.

Phryne shook her head. “He’s not that young.”

—————

When Jack woke the following morning, he found himself on the very edge of the bed, Phryne sprawled across the rest of it. His neck had a painful kink in it and his shoulder ached from the position he’d been sleeping in. Not that he had slept well, even before she’d come in and taken over the bed; his dreams had been murky and he’d woken several times, chest thudding with anxiety. It had been a bad night, the first in some time. Still, breakfast and coffee and distractions would more than suffice; if nothing else, he had a case file from early in his career that he’d memorised in the hopes of eventually solving, and it should occupy his mind during the drive back to the airfield and then the flight to Paris itself.

Wedged on his side with his back to the edge of the mattress and already precariously close to falling off, he attempted to roll out of bed as best he could in the space he had. Unable to quite get his feet on the floor without falling straight off, the movement was enough to rouse Phryne; she looked at him through one very sleepy, very annoyed eye.

“What _are_ you doing?” she huffed.

“Getting out of bed.”

“Oh no,” she protested, “you were asleep last night, and we have a long flight today.”

“Go back to sleep then,” he said softly, desisting his turtle-like attempts to get out of bed with no space to maneuver; he brushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Not what I meant, Jack,” she murmured, still half-asleep even as her hands wandered to his waistband. Her eyes opened, pinning him where he was. “I want you.” 

“And far be it for me to deny you anything you want,” Jack replied, slipping his own hand beneath the peach silk of her pyjamas.

Their lovemaking was slow and sweet, and when it was done they fell back asleep, limbs tangled together. When Jack woke for the second time, it was in a far more comfortable position and Phryne in his arms. It was still utterly impossible to get out of bed.

“Come on, love,” he muttered, attempting to extract his numb arm from beneath her; he didn’t even notice the term of endearment that had slipped from his lips until he saw her feline smirk in response.

“I like that,” was all she said, rolling off his arm. “I’m still not getting up yet.”

“I’ll save you some breakfast. Probably,” he replied with a chuckle, climbing out and dressing quickly.

He paused at the bedroom door to watch her sleep; she had sprawled back onto her stomach, hair obscuring her face, the curve of her breast just visible beneath her. He wanted nothing more than to climb back into bed, bury under the duvet, and stay with her there forever.

Three hours later they were back on the road, Phryne laughing loudly as she sped towards the airfield.

“It’s no Hispano-Suiza, Jack, but it does the job!”

Jack just clutched his hat and hoped he wouldn’t die or, if he did, that it would be a quick death. After a near miss with a pig crossing the road, he’d had enough.

“Miss Fisher!” he shouted. “I did not survive the trenches to end up spread unceremoniously across the road after a lost battle with a farmyard animal.”

“Pshaw!” she said lightly. “That wasn’t even close.”

“Miss Fisher!”

She slowed the car down slightly—of course, she also used the opportunity to take a hand off the wheel to caress his knee, so it was hardly an improvement. At least she couldn’t reach him in the plane. And if he died in a fiery aeronautical incident, well, at least it would be quick.

—————

It was late afternoon when they approached Paris; they had left Marie and Brigitte later than intended—the company had been excellent and Phryne knew it would be some time before they would have another chance to visit. When Jack and Brigitte had become sidetracked by Brigitte’s garden, Phryne found she couldn’t bear to tear him away from something that made him smile so easily.

“One loop around the city?” Phryne shouted. “You can’t beat the view!”

Jack turned in his seat, eyes questioning, and she repeated herself. He motioned that he could not hear her, and Phryne attempted to gesture the suggestion. He shook his head slowly, clearly not understanding, but gave her a thumbs up despite it. It was a silly thing to become sentimental over, and she quickly tamped it down, but there was something in the utter faith on his face that made her heart clench.

She took the plane in reasonably low, coming in from northeast of the city, passing many of the sights along the right bank of the Seine, before eventually looping to follow the river itself back out of the city and towards the airfield. Jack peered over the side the entire time, one hand gripping his hat and the other holding onto the plane itself, a look of awe on his face. When she dipped the wing of her plane—it could scarcely be called an aeronautical trick, though Jack would almost certainly beg to differ—his gaze turned to her just long enough for a reprimanding glare, completely undermined by the amused twitching of his lips.

They landed outside of the city, in a friend’s personal airfield, planning to borrow a car to drive the nearby train station. Michel had left the car by the hangar. There was a lightness in Jack when he climbed from the plane this time; Phryne caught his arm and spun him around for a kiss.

“Getting used to my flying?”

“I’ve… never seen anything like that,” he admitted. “It looks very different from the air.”

“That’s because you’re not a telescope,” she teased, just to see him groan, then kissed his cheek. “Can you load up the car while I get her under cover?”

Jack nodded; for a moment Phryne just paused to watch him go, coat flapping ever-so-slightly behind him. She had been surprised how much she had missed him when they were apart; it had not been an entirely comfortable realisation, but from the moment he had wrapped his arms around her in her mother’s parlour, she hadn’t minded. It was _Jack_ , after all. He would never take advantage of her… what? Trust? Faith? Regardless, if there was any man alive who could negate her natural disinclination towards commitment, he stood a good chance. She didn’t think too carefully about how far he had already come. He reached the car and she forced herself to move; the airplane would not take care of itself, and that was a far more pressing issue than contemplative nonsense.

Half an hour later, they watched from the train window as Paris came in sight; they had selected a hotel in Montparnasse, to be nearer to friends of Phryne’s and because it was much closer to Jack’s price range—he insisted on paying for his portion of travel expenses, and while he had declared that money was not a pressing concern, Phryne was careful to be conservative in her spending—and after checking in, they decided to take a stroll.

“Have you been to Paris?” she asked as they stepped onto the street, hooking her arm through Jack’s and leaning close.

“A few times during the war, and while waiting for decampment,” he said, grimacing. “I imagine it was not the city at its best.”

Phryne remembered the soldiers that had celebrated their survival after Armistice, rowdy and alive; somehow she could not see Jack among them. There had been other soldiers, numb and waiting in perpetual limbo for their next orders, the next bomb to go off, the agreement to fall through; she hoped he had not been one of them.

“It’s been some time for me as well,” she admitted; she’d walked away from it all when she’d escaped René, and never felt the need to stop by again when there was a whole world to explore instead. “We’ll have to see what’s changed.”

They walked almost aimlessly, stopping by a cafe for a light dinner, and then began to make their way back to the hotel. Halfway there, Phryne saw a shop she recalled from her time in Montparnasse, and stopped to peer in the window; not much had changed, until she caught the glimpse of a mural painted along one wall. It must have been done after she’d left Paris, but she’d recognise the artist anywhere. Her stomach dropped and she stepped away from the glass, giving Jack a smile she hoped was steady.

“Not the shop I remember,” she said blithely. “Must be the wrong street.”


	4. Chapter 4

## Part II: Chapter Four

* * *

 

Their first full day in Paris, they stayed in bed until noon. The weather was unseasonably warm, sunlight bright through the window when Phryne finally collapsed against the pillows and called for mercy. She could see the smirk in Jack’s eyes, though his mouth was hidden between her thighs; she’d never known a man to luxuriate in the act quite so much as Jack Robinson. The first time she had teased him with food, early in their acquaintance, she thought him a man who could appreciate a hearty meal; she really hadn’t had a clue.

“We need to eat!”

“I am eating.”

“Both of us,” she laughed, tangling her fingers into his hair—it was the easiest part of him to reach.

“We can do that too.”

His hand slid from her thighs to the small of her back as he rose up, pulling her down the bed for a quick, searing kiss. He tasted of her, salt and tang mingling on her tongue, and she promptly forgot her suggestion. Her stomach had not—it took the opportunity to growl, and Jack laughed.

“Lunch it is,” he agreed.

“Consider it a brief refueling stop,” she said, stroking down his chest.

“I believe certain parts of my anatomy would agree,” Jack smiled. “I’m not quite as young as I was.”

“Youth is wasted on the young,” Phryne replied lightly; a small part of her supplied exactly how much youth had been wasted, last time she was in Paris. “And age does not wither.”

The sudden softness in his eyes cut right through her.

“I believe that’s my line, Miss Fisher.”

She rolled out from beneath him with a laugh, managing to wrap herself in a sheet as she did so.

“Lunch. And then possibly seeing some of the sights, because I did not drag you out of Australia just to fuck in interesting locations.”

He reached out a hand to stroke the silk sheet, but let her walk to the en suite while he watched with a quiet smirk. _That man_ , Phryne thought as she closed the door to shower quickly.

Soon she was out and ready to dress; Jack glanced up from where he was securing his cufflinks, his gaze appreciative but not lecherous. She figured there would eventually come a day when that look failed to surprise her, but she hoped it was a long time off. Which was a mildly unsettling thought, so she didn’t think about it at all.

“Do you have any particular sights in mind?” Jack asked, moving on to buttoning his waistcoat.

Phryne smirked; the idea had come to her in the shower.

“I do.”

He caught her teasing tone, because he gave her a crooked smile. “And will you tell me?”

“Absolutely not. Do you trust me?”

“How likely is this to end in my arrest?”

“Mind your cheek, Jack,” she reprimanded. “I’ll have you know that my French arrest record is completely clear.”

“How many countries _do_ you have an arrest record in?”

“Not nearly as many as I should,” she said lightly, pulling on her blouse and moving to the mirror to do her lipstick.

Phryne heard him scoff a laugh, and she smirked. It was good to never be too settled. They finished dressing and she took his arm, leaning in close to catch his scent. He’d washed at a basin in the hotel room, and smelled of of soap and freshly applied pomade; her stomach flipped.

Leading him from the hotel to the nearest Métro station and then onto the train itself, they talked idly about nothing much at all. She never seemed to tire of talking with Jack; during their nightcaps she had presumed, at first, that it was because of the refuge in the cases. But as he had lingered longer and longer in the evenings, they had strayed from safe topics and still she found their conversations enthralling—his humour aligned with hers, they were both well-read in subjects that interested them (and oh, the day she managed to unearth the fact that he had an entire shelf of banned books in his house she had thought she might just kiss him, regardless of marital status), and he told and listened to stories with equal relish. And so she had offered him a standing invitation for a nightcap, knowing that he would never abuse the offer. More than one dull or morose night had been saved by his familiar knock. It seemed impossible that such a happy arrangement could continue indefinitely, and yet…

“We’re here,” she said, motioning the enormous avenue before them, surrounded by a park. “The Champs-Élysées. Some very lovely restaurants and shops, and I do believe that it might hold some appeal to you as well?”

His smile was so open and warm, Phryne thought she might actually cry. Taking him to see the ending place of the Tour de France was no swallow pin, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was something.

“You remembered?” he asked, almost in awe.

“Of course I did. You could hardly expect me to forget the thought of you in a cycling outfit? Hot and sweaty and—”

He kissed her, then pulled back to smile.

“You are…”

“Very, very hungry at this point in time,” Phryne said; there was no point in getting too sentimental.

He tilted his head, then offered his arm; Phryne curled her hand around his elbow and led him down the avenue. He gave his head a little shake from time to time, as if he could not quite believe it; it was, perhaps, why she didn’t notice the beggar on the grass until he’d begun to shout.

“ _Aidez-moi_!”

She turned, as did Jack, but it was clear that any help they could supply was years in the past. Mustard gas. Phryne dug her nails into Jack’s arm, shutting her eyes; she was not easily made queasy, and had seen worse many times, but something—the slight nip in the air, the smell of late autumn—reminded her of her first drive in the ambulance corps, and she breathed deeply and hoped Jack was too distracted to notice.

“Poor bastard,” he murmured.

“We can’t—” she stopped before her voice broke and betrayed her. “We’ll tell the _gendarmes_ , if we see them.”

Her eyes still closed, she sensed rather than saw Jack’s nod, and turned away; opening her eyes, she continued to walk. They were silent for several minutes, until they came across an artist painting the Petit Palais.

“How wonderful!” she forced herself to exclaim. “What do you think, Jack?”

Jack muttered an agreement, and she gently bumped his shoulder.

“It’s no Sarcelle,” she continued, “but it’s quite lovely.”

He gave a strained smile. “Lunch, Miss Fisher?”

Phryne sighed; art was not somewhere they had mutual ground. Still, something to eat would do them both some good.

“I believe there’s a lovely little restaurant just beyond the Grand Palais,” she said. “And then we can visit some shops—I rather think you’ll need a better hat.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my hat,” he said defensively, “and if there was, you were the one that bought it.”

“And it suits you perfectly. But I suspect you’ll need something that breathes better on our trip home.”

He shook his head, rather obstinately.

“It’s just a hat, Jack.”

“After lunch.”

She kissed his cheek; he stiffened before returning the kiss, and then they continued their walk.

_Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi!_

—————

_The day started so well_ , Jack thought ruefully. A long, lazy morning in bed, good conversation, a trip to the Champs-Élysées that reminded him that Phryne was taking his needs and interests into consideration; the latter was not a surprise, per se, but she was such a whirlwind of activity that it would be so easy to become caught in her wake. He’d been contemplating how to convey his appreciation when they’d heard the shouting and it had all gone to hell.

From the air, Paris looked nothing like the city he’d been in. Sure, there was the Eiffel Tower, same as ever, and Notre Dame, and the Seine running through it all, but it felt different. And his one visit to Montparnasse was a hazy recollection of a drunken leave with some mates in 1917, so no memories lurked around corners. He’d not made it to the Champs-Élysées in the past, too afraid to taint a childhood dream with unpleasant memories; it was supposed to be over. To be safe. The war, over a decade in the past, intruding upon it now… he found he’d lost all taste for conversation.

He felt himself giving short, curt answers to Phryne’s teasing remarks without conscious thought. She escorted him into a restaurant; Jack looked at the menu blankly for several minutes before remembering that his French was abysmal and therefore utterly useless. He gave himself a shake and forced himself to focus on Phryne’s chatter.

“And I thought I might order the—”

“I don’t read French,” he blurted out.

She winced, then smiled at him. “Oh, of course. I completely forgot.”

She patiently talked him through the menu, her head bent in such a way that he caught the occasional glimpse of a bruise on her neck. He wondered, idly, when it had happened. She really was remarkable. He reached across the table to catch her hand in his, giving it a squeeze.

“Order for me?” he asked, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

“If you’re sure,” she said.

“I trust you completely.”

He didn’t bother to tell her that he’d only taken in about half of what she had said, or that when the food arrived it all tasted of ash. There were things she was better off not knowing.

By the time they had returned to the hotel room in the late afternoon, Jack had a tension headache that left him seeing double. He tossed his hat on the side, hung up his coat, and loosened his tie as he stumbled towards the bed. It wasn’t until he was sprawled face down that he realised he still had his shoes on.

“Jack?”

“Not right now, Phryne.”

He really could not face whatever nonsense—well-intended though it might be—she had in mind. He felt her hand brush the nape of his neck.

“Do you need a powder?” she asked gently.

“No,” he said, head pulsing. “Don’t let me keep you in this evening.”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to do, Jack.”

She slid down the bed to remove his shoes, letting them fall to the floor. Then she returned to her previous position, settling against the pillows and opening a book, and stroked his hair with her free hand until he fell asleep.

—————

Jack slept most of the night, leaving Phryne with far too much time to think. Unwilling to leave him to his own devices when he seemed unwell, she ended up pacing the length of the room in the search of a physical outlet for the unpleasant memories of her time at war. She ran a hot bath, and fell into an uneasy sleep around midnight. Come morning Jack appeared to be more himself; he woke her with soft kisses on her neck, at least, and sleepy sex when she roused.

“Better, Jack?”

He’d not cleared his hair of pomade the previous night, and the curl that usually— _usually_ , a thought so easily slipped—fell across his forehead stuck straight up.

“Mmm, much,” he agreed, his attention still on a tender exploration of her skin.

“Museums, today?”

“If you’d like.”

A gasp, his thumb brushing against her still-sensitive flesh.

“This is about what we both like, Jack,” she breathed, wishing him lower.

“After last night, you get first choice,” he said, dipping his tongue along the lines of her stomach. Then he looked up at her, his eyes soft and appreciative. “I’m sorry our plans were cut short. But thank you for staying with me.”

_Always_ , she thought; not always, of course—nobody could promise always—but there was nothing else she would have done when he'd needed her. She lifted her arm from the bed to stroke his cheek.

“Of course I did, Jack,” she said, her voice surprisingly hoarse.

His tiny half-smile told her he understood, and when it turned into a smirk she knew she’d like whatever wicked thought had crossed his mind.

“Breakfast in bed?” he asked, already moving south of her navel.

Phryne closed her eyes, feeling the first brush of his lips against hers.

“It’s not a service the hotel offers,” she purred, “so you’ll have to improvise.”

An hour and one screaming climax later—Jack’s smug satisfaction at the latter had made her laugh as she dressed—they were ready to leave the hotel.

“The Louvre?” Phryne suggested, doubting that he’d have been there before. Most of the art had been hidden away during the war, to keep it safe from German bombs.

He tilted his head in agreement, following her lead; they were halfway around the museum when she noticed he was being quiet—unnaturally so, even for him.

“Your head?” she asked quietly. “We can go back to the hotel—”

“No!” he barked, and her hand on his arm tightened in surprise. “Sorry. No, I’m fine, Phryne.”

She eyed him doubtfully, but he smiled and patted her hand.

“If you’re certain, Jack. I really don’t mind….”

“Of course I am. We’re here to see the art,” he said, leading her through to the next room.

She didn’t bother to tell him she wasn’t fooled; she’d known far better liars than him, after all. And it was a silly bit of pride, refusing to admit to something as mundane as a headache; she’d hardly think less of him for it. She found herself chafing at his transparent attempts to appear fine, even more than the moments where he was too tired to hide it. Did he really think she’d be more concerned with pieces of art than his health? Still, everyone had bad days, and by the time they stopped for a late lunch he was back to the Jack she knew. She was overthinking things, no doubt aggravated by her own restless night.

Over the next few days they visited many of the sights, sandwiched between bouts of lovemaking that left more than her body trembling in the aftermath. It was intoxicating, to be alone with him—no meddlesome aunts or parents or former fathers-in-law, no work, no need for propriety, nothing but the two of them.

Most of the time, he was everything he had always been and promised to be—funny and considerate and charming, so utterly lovely that when she held him through the night she could forget the glimpses of a former life that nipped at her heels. But there were moments, rare though they were, where he seemed a stranger—short-tempered over the smallest things, unexpectedly moody, dismissing her concerns and redirecting her attention when she asked questions. She found herself trying to predict what would upset him next, a habit long-ingrained from her father and… well, it was an unfair comparison. But there seemed to be no pattern, and for the first time since she’d met him, she began to understand why his marriage had ended; it was exhausting, waiting for it to happen.

“Phryne?”

It was late. She hadn’t been able to sleep; they’d had dinner with an old friend of hers—platonic, not that it mattered—and Veronique Sarcelle and “the incident in Australia” had come up. So she found herself staring out the window; with nothing but the street lamps for illumination, Paris seemed all too familiar. She turned, saw Jack watching her.

“Come to bed?” he asked. “It’s cold.”

She padded over, slipping off her robe before slipping beneath the sheets. Jack’s arms drew her close, and she pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“It’s snowing,” she said, “just a little.”

He hummed and traced his hand down her arm, already drifting back to sleep. After some time, she followed him.

—————

“Dancing,” Phryne said, over dinner on their fourth day in Paris.“I’m presuming that you won’t let me drag you into legally-dubious clubs when we get back to Melbourne—given some of the nonsense your fellow officers get up to it would hardly be a scandal, but I wouldn’t ask you to bend the rules for my amusement—but there are some very nice places with dark corners to… dance into.”

“You may very well be surprised how far you can drag me when we get back to Melbourne,” Jack replied, “but since our on-board entertainment is more likely to be of the waltzing variety, I see your point.”

Beneath the table, her foot brushed against his calf.

“Not,” she asserted, “that there is anything wrong with a waltz.”

“Absolutely not. But variety is the spice of life.”

It was the right thing to say, because she smiled into her wine glass.

“You do have a remarkably…diverse palate.”

She’d kicked off her heel and was now settling her foot into his lap. Jack stifled a groan.

“If you want that palate to extend to going to whatever the Parisian equivalent of the Green Mill is, you’ll behave yourself, Miss Fisher,” he said unable to keep from smiling.

She pouted in response—she was evidently determined to destroy him—but removed her foot. They finished their meal with relative chasteness—really, there’d been the tiny little incident where’d he’d excused himself to the lavatory and she’d followed him, and with a dress like that _not_ kissing her senseless in the corridor just seemed foolish—and then headed directly to a club.

It wasn’t until they arrived that Jack realised he had been there before; the golden gargoyle by the door was distinctive enough to stand out even in his alcohol-riddled memories of a two-week leave in 1917. He and three mates had spent most of it in Paris; on the last night they’d gotten roaring drunk and gone to a club.

It was a testament to the chaos that surrounded Phryne Fisher that he was not the least bit surprised to discover she was taking him to that exact same club. He tried very hard not to remember more about that night—of the four, only two of them had made it home. Waiting for decampment after the end of the war had been a bittersweet experience of things lost and saved. This club, however… he remembered a red-haired English nurse “falling” into his lap—the sudden shock of a warm, breathing woman in his arms; a kiss pressed behind her ear, the way she twisted in his lap, her lips on his, the sudden and intense reaction of his body. Then returning home 18 months later, too numb to fulfill his marital responsibilities or feel any desire to. He stopped at the door, unable to breathe.

Phryne turned to him, smiling.

“You owe me a dance, inspector,” she said.

Reaching out to grab his hand, she led him towards the coat check then through to the club itself. He followed, glancing around. No soldiers to be seen, of course, and he felt himself relax. He spun Phryne into his arms with a quick tug; she laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. Then she began to sway, slow and sensuous, and he found himself forgetting everything but the feel of Phryne in his arms.

It lasted the length of a song, then they broke apart to retrieve drinks, and the next hour seemed to go by in a blur. Amongst the dancing and the conversation and random people Phryne introduced him to—he suspected they could be in the furthest reaches of Antarctica and she would run into an old friend of one description or another—there were other, more painful aspects. A glimpse of red hair across the room that made his hand tighten around his glass, a song he associated with the war though it had become a standard; he could not escape the past, it seemed.

He wondered whether he should tell Phryne about the red-haired nurse and that illicit kiss—it seemed a good idea to be scrupulously honest, but at the same time he could see her dismissive shrug and the way she’d tilt her head when she told him that he’d been lonely and there was no shame in such an act. The guilt, not just of a broken vow but of his carnal interest in a stranger—no further than kissing, thankfully—when he returned home and found himself unable to perform, and once that had passed, unable to produce the children Rosie so desperately wanted; the guilt was not so easily dismissed, the disappointment he had been not so easily forgotten. And he most certainly did not want her absolution.

He could feel his veneer of revelry slipping, and placed his drink on the small table for two they had found in a quiet corner of the room.

“Another turn?” he asked, extending his hand.

She blinked as she looked from his hand to his face, as if she’d been lost in thought, then smiled and slipped her hand into his.

The music was quick, the steps looser than most of the ones he knew, but Phryne could dance well enough for the both of them. She moved in his arms, turned, slithered against him, used the stiffness in his body to her advantage as she circled him, one hand trailing across his shoulder; he could dance with her forever.

Remembering his last promise of forever and how unwelcome such a proclamation was likely to be, he faltered; Phryne glided around to stand before him again; leaning forward she whispered into his ear.

“I find I can think of half a dozen more pleasant things to be doing this evening.”

He smiled slightly.

“Let’s get the coats.”

—————

She remembered the club. She had also underestimated exactly how many of her memories were tainted by René’s palpable presence—in the intervening decade the music had changed, and some of the decor; but there was the corner where she’d been speaking to Étienne and Marie the night René had decided she was arranging a liaison with them both, there was was the corridor he had followed her down as they’d argued one evening. Not even witnessing his death was enough to erase the memories, and the visit was not quite the recaptured youth she’d hoped to find. When it became clear that Jack was not enjoying himself either—he’d become churlish once more, though he attempted to feign congeniality—she decided it was time to leave.

“I find I can think of half a dozen more pleasant things to be doing this evening,” she purred into his ear, fingers toying with his tie with deliberate intent.

“Let's get the coats,” he replied.

Five minutes later they were outside the club and headed home. As they passed an alley, Phryne heard a noise; she glanced down it and caught sight of a couple enjoying a quick rut against a wall. She paused to watch for a moment, to ascertain whether the woman was there by choice; from the bliss on her face she definitely was. Phryne nudged Jack’s shoulder, intending to teasingly ask him what he thought about alleys, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts.

“Jack?”

He tilted his head to look down at her, his expression unreadable in the low light. She pressed a kiss against his cheek, rubbed her own cheek against the smoothness before pulling away slightly with a smile. He slid his fingers through her hair to cup her head, then pulled her in for a kiss. It was incredibly tender, sweet and a little melancholy; Phryne deepened the kiss, tugged him closer so she could feel the press of him against her.

One of his hands dropped to her waist, slipping beneath her fur.

“It’s cold,” she murmured against his lips, joke forgotten. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

They hurried through the streets back to their lodgings; when they got to their room, Phryne quickly tugged his coat off. His hands roamed over her body, soft and wondering in their touch. Cherishing. In short order, their clothes were removed, carefully folded and set aside; once naked, she closed the small distance to twine her arms around his neck, her legs with his. He lifted her, her legs sliding to encircle his hips, and carried her to the bed. Taking his time, he kissed down her body—a brush of parted lips against her breasts, his tongue whirling against the skin of her stomach, a gentle exhalation chilled her skin and caused her to shiver in anticipation.

Then he was between her thighs; teasing at first, then pleasing. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she canted her hips, so lost in the sensations she was unable to even moan. When he hummed against her she shattered in utter silence.

When the high passed she pulled him up to lie beside her, studying his face; the small upturn of his nose, the brow that furrowed far too often, the deepness of his philtrum, the angles and planes. She reached up to touch his cheek and kissed him slowly, feeling replete. Her eyes drifted shut as the kisses slowed, languid contentment making her limbs heavy.

“Go to sleep,” he said softly, drawing the doona over them both.

“Mmm,” she protested sleepily; any other evening that would have been foreplay rather than the main event, but she was tired and warm and Jack’s arms were inviting. She snuggled closer and breathed him in, alley forgotten, letting sleep take her.

 

_The stone against her back is rough, her lover’s breath hot on her face as he tugs up her long skirts. There’s a thrill in it, the edge of danger; she’s lived so long with it it’s an old friend. Let the world burn; she has lust and alcohol and the sheer joy of the physical. She is alive, will push against any barrier just to feel that blood thrumming in her veins; it’s why she loves this man._

_Her grips her upper arm; squeezes it until it hurts._

_“You are mine, ma petite chatte noir,” he says, his voice like gravel._

_She tosses her head, doesn’t let the fear creep in. His fingers fumble as they push her knickers aside, pushes a finger inside. She’s not ready for the invasion and bites her lip against the discomfort._

_“Mine,” he repeats. His hand withdraws to unfasten his trousers. “Mine to paint, mine to love, mine to—” a sudden thrust “—fuck.”_

_She arches away, the pain making her cry out softly. He’s hurried; there’s no slickness, no heat, just the bricks against her shoulders, the ache between her legs, his oppressive presence around her._

_He comes with a final thrust, nips at her bottom lip._

_“Mine,” he asserts once more; she nods numbly._

 

She woke up thrashing; arms tightened around her and she struggled harder—immediate release. After a second she was awake enough to remember where she was, her heart still thudding and her eyes filled with tears.

“Phryne?”

The concern in his voice almost broke her, but she managed a tentative smile as she rolled over to face him.

“I’m fine, Jack. Nightmare, that’s all. I’m sorry for waking you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” he said, reaching out to touch her; she flinched away and his hand withdrew.

She lay stiffly for a moment, trying to get her pounding heartbeat to calm. Just a dream.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? I’ve been told I have quite a kick on me.”

“Just a split lip.”

She bolted upright, reaching for his face.

“A joke!” he said quickly.

“Not funny, Jack,” she said, laying a hand on his cheek to check anyway. She couldn’t see anything in the moonlight.

“Sorry,” he grimaced. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’ll survive.”

It was the closest she had ever come to admitting her weakness to a bed partner; he nodded in reply. Impulsively, she leant forward to kiss his lips. He flinched, just a little.

“I did!”

“It’s not split,” he said. “Just a bump. And I was awake already, I should have been paying more attention. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Liar.”

“It won’t hurt in the morning,” he amended.

She laughed quietly, nuzzling her nose against his cheek, and felt the tension in her body abate. Not entirely, but enough that she returned to the fold of his arms and closed her eyes. He was very good at chasing away her fears; a tiny part of her shouted in protest at the loss of independence, but Phryne was—quite frankly—too tired to listen. Listening to the steady beat of his heart through his chest, she fell back to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

## Part II: Chapter Five

* * *

 

“It’s just down this road,” Phryne declared, barging off as Jack trailed behind her.

“Are you entirely certain you know where this surprise is, Miss Fisher?”

She turned to give him an unamused look.

“I did live here.”

“For a few months, over a decade ago.”

She folded her arms.

“Are you doubting me?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply; he did not want to start an argument.

“Not at all, Miss Fisher.”

“Well, good,” she said, looking slightly uncertain.

She had been out of sorts all morning, claiming a dislike of heights when they’d gone up the Eiffel Tower and being generally evasive about their next destination.

“Come here, Phryne,” he said; she came compliantly, in the middle of a Parisian street, and Jack pressed a kiss to her forehead. “There is nothing in Paris that I want to see enough for _this_ to be worth it. We’ll do something else, yes? Or we could go back to the hotel…”

She smiled at that, then exhaled a breath.

“I’m fine, Jack. I just wanted… Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“There’s a large, comfortable bed calling your name, then.”

Whatever strangeness had come over her seemed to fade, and she toyed with the button on his overcoat and smiled up at him.

“Funny, I thought that was you,” she purred.

She was going to kill him. Stone cold dead.

“Come along, Miss Fisher, I believe the Métro is this direction.”

They walked arm-in-arm towards the station, then Phryne paused.

“Oh, it’s this way!” she exclaimed suddenly, pulling Jack along until they stopped in the shadow of a large building. “The Vélodrome d'Hiver!”

Jack swore the temperature in the city dropped several degrees. Twelve-year-old Jack and his best friend Robbie, riding through the streets of Richmond as if it was the Tour de France. Dreaming of seeing Paris, signing up for the war. Coming to Paris with him and two others, the disastrous leave he had tried so hard to forget. He and Robbie had intended to cut off from the group one day to see the famous cycling stadium and had run out of time; three weeks later he’d seen his best mate’s head blown off instead.

“What do you think, Jack?” she asked, her eyes unusually wide and lacking any ulterior motive.

_I think I want to be sick._

“I think, Miss Fisher, that no form of transportation or the facilities for them have ever trumped a long nap with a beautiful woman. Come back to the hotel. Now we’ve found it, we can come again another day.”

She looked at him doubtfully, then leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Well, Jack, if you insist… I’m sure I can make your noble sacrifice worth it,” she said coyly.

Jack walked them quickly towards the Métro station, being careful not to look back.

—————

Café Anatole was no longer Café Anatole, and the fresh-faced artists that filled it during the evening meal were different too. But the atmosphere—of camaraderie, of artistic expression, of the romantic idea of artists starving for their craft—was much the same. Phryne greeted their dinner companion—a painter named Eduard she had shared a bed with very briefly, before René—with a kiss to each cheek as he rose from the table at their arrival.

“Eduard, this is Inspector Jack Robinson,” she said, stepping aside slightly to gesture to Jack.

“Inspector? You are not with the _gendarmes_ , sir?”

Jack actually laughed.

“No. I believe Miss Fisher just likes the sound of it. I have no power here,” he said easily, looping an arm around Phryne’s waist and glancing at her softly; it took all her strength not to point out that he had every power over her, when he looked at her like that.

Eduard gestured to the chairs, encouraging them to take a seat. They did, and Eduard poured them each a glass of wine.

“You are—how the Americans say—shackled up?” he asked without preamble.

Jack choked on his drink.

“It’s ‘shacked up,’ Eduard—” Phryne doubted Jack had ever heard the term, but the quick twitch of his jaw told her he’d gotten the gist. She stroked his knee beneath the table. “—and no. Jack might just make an honest woman of me.”

“Perish the thought,” Jack said dryly.

Phryne shot him a surprised look. True, their plans to travel as an engaged couple hadn’t really come up in France—it was very much a consideration for the boat journey home and some of the more conservative ports along the way—but he seemed quite dismissive of the idea.

Not, of course, that she had any interest in making the arrangement a serious one. She wasn’t the sort that did commitment. This thing with Jack, so vaguely defined, was the closest she had ever come by choice. But, she supposed, she had imagined that _Jack_ would prefer it that way. No matter; it seemed they were in agreement. How serendipitous. As the waiter took their orders, she decided to dismiss the line of thought entirely and almost succeeded. It was a very pleasant meal though—the food was delicious and the company charming, and Phryne found herself relaxing. When the coffee and dessert was cleared and the bill settled—Phryne deferring to Jack’s offer to pay for the entire meal—Eduard invited them to a party the following evening.

“All the _artistes_ of Montparnasse will be there,” he said with a smile, “and you will be the very centre of it all, the lady detective and her policeman.”

_Her_ policeman; she’d laced her fingers through Jack’s and squeezed his hand before the implication settled in. It was nonsense; people didn’t belong to other people, not really. They weren’t property.

_You are mine, ma petite chatte noir._

She shivered; Jack helped her into her furs, then turned back to Eduard and accepted the invitation.

“That is alright, Miss Fisher?” he confirmed.

“Yes, fine,” she said, smiling tightly. “We’ll see you then, Eduard.”

They left the restaurant, and Phryne took hold of Jack’s arm.

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel yet,” she said. “Let’s walk for awhile.”

He tilted his head with a tiny smile, and she leant up to kiss the corner of his lips. They began a slow stroll through Montparnasse, paying very little mind to where they were headed beyond in the vague direction of the hotel.

“Would it be so bad?” she asked, after some time.

They had turned down a tiny side street, barely more than an alley.

“Hmm?”

“Marrying me,” she elaborated. “Would it be so bad?”

“You don’t want to get married,” he said, question evident in his voice.

“No, I suppose not.”

They lapsed back into a comfortable silence.

“Would it really be so bad, being married to me?” he asked eventually.

“It’s not the companion, it’s the institution, Jack.”

He nodded. “Can’t say my own left me with a warm view of it, that’s for sure.”

“What happened?”

“The war.”

Clearly he didn’t intend to elaborate.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

She wondered if his disinterest in marriage would last, what she would do if it did not. End matters, most likely, even if the thought left an ache in her chest.

“You wouldn’t remarry though?”

He shrugged. “I’m not particularly inclined to, no. As you said, it’s the institution.”

“I’m not sure I believe _that_ , Jack,” she said, remembering how much weight even a nearly-dead marriage had carried.

“It’s a moot point, regardless. You aren’t… well, I left any prospect of that behind in Melbourne. I’m not exactly inundated with offers.”

His words twisted in her gut, reminded her of a dark-haired beauty stroking his lapels, calling him Gianni. How close it had been. She paused, turning to adjust his hat, smooth his coat, lay her hands across his solid chest. He was here, not there. Here because she had asked him, because regardless of the adventure before her the thought of leaving him behind had been… unpleasant. She kissed him fiercely, her toes curling in her boots as he returned her ardour. Here. She didn’t want to think too deeply about the implications, about what she had found herself in the middle of without realising it.

“The hotel just became pressing,” she teased when their lips had parted.

A tiny smirk across his mouth and in his eyes; she ran her tongue across the former, waiting for his lips to part. A playful tenderness, then just a hint of concession as he met her kiss once more. She caught his hand with hers, glanced around the street to orientate herself, then tugged him down an alley.

“As appealing as a rut in an alleyway is, Miss Fisher—”

“It’s a _shortcut_ , Jack, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

He chuckled deeply, and Phryne found herself doing the same. Then she stopped, realising where her shortcut had led them.

“Phryne?”

It was a non-descript building, the sort found on any street in Montparnasse. Her hand dropped from Jack’s as she drew her arms around herself.

“Phryne?”

René’s flat. She had lived there, but he made it abundantly clear that it was not hers. The last place she had belonged to someone else. She began to shake.

“Phryne?” Jack repeated again; she was distantly aware that he sounded worried. “Are you alright?”

His hand came to rest on her elbow and gave it a gentle squeeze. She looked at him, noting the concern in his gaze.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” she bluffed.

“You seem…”

He gestured weakly, as if uncertain exactly what to say, and moved to place an arm around her. She jumped away.

“No, I’m fine,” she repeated, feigning brightness. “Just a chill. Shall we get a cup of tea? Before the hotel, I mean. I’m parched.”

—————

In hindsight, he should have declined the party entirely. He wasn’t sleeping terribly well, often waking several times a night with a sense of dread, and after another day of exploring Paris he wanted nothing more than to read a book and have an early night. But he was determined not to let his own problems ruin Phryne’s enjoyment of the city, and so he’d accepted Eduard’s invitation and was now paying a very high price.

There were a lot of people, a lot of smoke, a lot of drugs of varying degrees of legality. The music, played by a handful of rotating musicians, was loud and cacophonous; Phryne swayed along to it, dragging him into various dances that made him feel a fool. And now she’d buggered off to use the lavatory. His head was pounding, and for the first time in years he could feel his control slipping dangerously. He needed to get out, get some fresh air, find some solitude before the panic overtook him.

“Hell of a dame you’ve got,” boomed a voice beside him; Jack flinched, just for half a second, then looked the man up and down.

“You mean Miss Fisher?” he asked dryly.

The American didn’t pick up the nuances, just chuckled jovially.

“Bet she’s a real tiger. Or has she kept you waiting?”

Jack closed his eyes and prayed that the ‘tiger’ would make her way back soon.

“She has, has she?”

Jack clutched his drink tighter and didn’t say a word. The American elbowed him in the ribs.

“Pass her along when you’re done, will ya?”

“My fiancee is not a plaything,” he said angrily. “And while I suspect that she’ll tire of me soon enough, you can proposition her yourself if you’re so inclined.”

The American chuckled again, and it was only Phryne’s serendipitous return that stopped Jack from tossing the last of his whiskey in the bastard’s smug face.

“Hello, darling,” she purred.

“We’re leaving,” Jack barked; a tiny voice told him he was being irrational, and he bit his bottom lip hard enough for the sting to snap him back to the room. “I’m leaving. I—yes. Feel free to—”

He needed out. Without checking to see if Phryne was following, he hurried through the house and out the front door. In the cool winter air he took a deep breath, leaning against a lamp post until the worst thrumming in his head had passed and his hands were steady once more.

“Jack?”

Phryne’s voice was tentative, and he cursed himself. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and he turned.

“Apologies, Miss Fisher. I think I had too much to drink.”

“You barely drank at all, Jack,” she chided softly, stepping closer to place his hat on his head—he’d completely forgotten it.

“Perhaps I need some sleep, then. Please, return to the party—I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s not an inconvenience, Jack,” she said, making him feel worse. “The hotel?”

Jack nodded, and they began to walk. Soon he felt the last tendrils of panic abating, leaving him feeling tired and foolish, but very much relieved that it had not been worse.

—————

There was a chill in the air as they walked, and Phryne pulled her coat around her as she watched Jack. Whatever had gotten into him at the party had passed, at least for the moment, but there was a guardedness in his eyes. She opened her mouth to tease him back to good humour, but the words didn’t come.

The events of the last few weeks replayed in her mind: the joyful, chaotic reunion that, over time, became tension in her shoulders as she waited for the next time things would go wrong; her own exhaustion as she tried to forget the past that was so determined to infringe upon the present; the highs of wry smiles and chuckles and lovemaking that left her fully sated and still wanting more that still defined so much of their time. Jack’s sudden moodiness, his dry humour becoming self-deprecation that left much unsaid.

_My fiancee_ , he had said to that odious man; it was nothing more than an agreed-upon pretense, but as the words echoed in her ears they became possessive. It might have been a balm once, the assertiveness with which he had conveyed his faith even as he proclaimed her independence, but Phryne felt the weight of it—it was not confidence in her, but a desire to hold himself separate as he had so many times as of late.

And the expectation that she would be as fickle as to throw him over for the first mildly appealing man who made an offer! Perhaps she should have expected nothing less from the man who could not see that there was no parade of men; there had been entertaining diversions, and the occasional old friend, but only one that _mattered_ , only one that she had allowed access not to her boudoir but her life.

By the time the hotel was in sight, she was furious. Turning the key in the lock of their door, she evaded his grasp as they stepped inside; the door rattled when she slammed it, and he jumped.

“What was that?” she demanded, folding her arms across her chest.

“What was what?”

“That ‘Oh, I’m not good enough for Phryne Fisher, she’ll tire of me’ that,” she spat. “I thought I was stepping out with Jack Robinson, not St. Jack the Martyr.”

He looked confused, just for a moment, then he _laughed_.

“It’s not funny, Jack. I’m not here to stroke your ego or play sympathetic—”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, looking tired.

“Phryne, quite frankly, I would have said absolutely anything if it got me out of that conversation,” he came closer, laying his hands gently on her upper arms. “Twenty minutes while I waited for you to come back, and there were enough people there that I really didn’t want to walk away and lose you. I really don’t care what an utter stranger thinks of me.”

“I do,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes.

“No you don’t,” he smiled. “What the world thinks of Phryne Fisher has never given you a moment’s pause.”

She pulled away again, sighing. She did care, but she couldn’t quite articulate what it was that she cared about. Not people’s perceptions of her, and if Jack was content with the same then that was on him. It was… perhaps the idea that she could love anybody less than the man Jack was.

“Phryne…” his voice was soft and questioning as he lowered his lips to kiss the side of her neck. “Phryne, I’m sorry. I was exhausted and out of sorts, and I didn’t think how it would sound to you.”

She rolled her head back as his mouth moved to the front of her neck and down, skittering across her collarbone.

“Go on,” she urged, and he chuckled.

“You are incredible. But I don’t think you’re too good for me, or that you’d ever be disloyal to what we have.” His hands had slid beneath the hem of her skirt, pushing it up. In the dim light of a hotel room lamp, his eyes were dark with intensity and desire. “I know you, Phryne, and that’s all I need.”

And his doubt had sent her reeling, but his certainty… she kissed him fiercely, pulling him closer and ignoring the prick of tears in her eyes. She wanted to feel him pressed against her, skin to skin; she broke the kiss just long enough to pull the jumper over his head.

“Jack, you’re on holiday. In Paris. Did you really need the tie?” she teased breathlessly, tugging the offending item to pull him in for another kiss.

She nipped his bottom lip, felt a rush of dampness when he growled in response before tearing it away.

“That’s more like it,” she purred, eyeing the hollow at the base of his throat.

It had been an intimacy she had glimpsed a handful of times in their slow and mutual wooing, and it never failed to thrill her. She dropped her eyes to his buttons instead, ignoring the slight tremble as her fingers unfastened them. Then his shirt was off, her dress hiked around her hips as he dropped to his knees to nuzzle her through the silk of her camiknickers, and damn it she wanted his skin. She squirmed, shucking the heavily-beaded dress off and it fell to the floor behind her with a thump.

She tugged at his bicep, pulling him back to his feet so she could grapple with his belt. When it was loosened and his trousers and smalls removed, he dropped his hands—previously exploring her breasts—to her waist, slowly walking her backwards towards the foot of the bed as he divested her of her lingerie. She sprawled across the mattress with a laugh, sliding up until she reclined against the pillows; he crawled up her body, kissing her skin as he went, until his arms were braced either side of her head and his legs were nestled between her thighs, his erection resting against her.

Phryne rocked gently, the press of his body arousing her further; he always felt so good, muscles rippling beneath his skin, hard but never sharp; she hooked a leg around his hip, thrusting upward. She wanted to feel him. _Needed_ to feel him.

“No, Phryne,” he said, catching her earlobe between his teeth and tugging gently. “Not yet.”

No man, not even Jack Robinson, could be allowed to get between her and her pleasure; the position of him on top of her suddenly felt constraining, and she moved to sit up. He gave way instantly, rocking back so he rested on his knees.

“Crick in my neck,” she lied easily, coming to straddle his thighs and looping her arms around his neck.

His hands came to rest, one on her back and the other beneath her bottom; his fingers dug in slightly as she sunk onto his cock.

“Fuck, Phryne,” he cursed as she began to move. “You’re so… _fuck_.”

She lowered her mouth to kiss him, noticing how her lipstick had marked his lips like a bruise; she sped up. Soon enough he was panting, trying to hold on to take her over the edge first; she twisted her hips, ground down.

“Come for me,” she growled.

His thrusts grew erratic in response; the tendons in his neck, in his arms, grew taut, and his face screwed up in concentration. Phryne leant forward, nipped at the crook of his neck so he came with a shout; the deep noise reverberated through her body, ensuring her own climax. She rocked against him to wring out every last shudder of pleasure, then kissed his mouth softly.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked.

Phryne ran her hands through his hair, pressed kisses against his jaw.

“Go to sleep Jack,” she hummed, shifting off of him so he could lie down.

He stretched out, too tired for anything else, and opened his arm for her to rest upon. Phryne shook her head and retreated to the lavatory to clean herself, of makeup and of their sex. When she was done, she gripped the edge of the porcelain sink tightly and met her eyes in the mirror.

She looked exhausted.

She _felt_ exhausted.

She couldn’t keep doing this. The sudden certainty settled in her gut, and she took a shuddering breath. Then another. Eventually she released her grip on the sink, her hands aching, and walked towards the door.

Jack was snoring when she returned. She laid next to him stiffly, her mind in turmoil and dread building in her stomach, every beat of her heart repeating its message: _run, run, run_.

Sleep eluded her. Eventually weak sunlight appeared at the edges of the curtains and she made her decision. Phryne slid from the bed, dressing silently; she didn’t even bother with lipstick. Then she headed out of the room, taking a left turn as she exited the hotel. Her destination was only a short walk away.

Half an hour later, she was back in the room; she packed her luggage, thankful they had flown to Paris and it was minimal, and then paused. Jack was still asleep, one hand tucked beneath his cheek as he laid on his side to face where she had been. His hair was longer than she had ever seen it, almost untameable. He’d intended to see a barber in London until she’d admitted that the extra length made it so easy to run her fingers through. He had smiled lopsidedly and kissed her.

“Just until we get home,” he’d said. “I may give Russell Street conniptions otherwise.”

This was for the best. A delightful few weeks to remember forever, uncomplicated, untouchable. There would never be the inevitable fights, the fall from grace, the painful end that tainted all that came before. She could remember him—the brilliant, kind man who treated her as an equal—without remembering the hurt they would unwittingly inflict, had already begun to inflict with sharp comments and lies of omission, that would become more and more intentional as they battled to emerge the victor. She could not— _would_ not—be his, but she had no desire to be his ruin either.

Swallowing hard, she extracted two tickets from the pocket of her coat—a newly-purchased train ticket to Marseille, and his ticket for the boat home. To Melbourne. With a final glance back, the heavy ache in her chest telling her to flee, she placed them on the writing desk by the window. Then she picked up her bag and left the room; the door shut with a gentle click behind her. She took a steadying breath, contemplating her next move. _Now I am fled_ , came a small memory she couldn’t quite place, _my soul is in the sky_.


	6. Chapter 6

## Part III: Chapter Six

* * *

"The only journey is the one within."

—Rainer Maria Rilke

* * *

When Jack woke up, his hand immediately stretched to Phryne’s side of the bed. Cold. He cracked an eye open, trying to think. They’d had no plans for the morning, and it was unlike her to get out of bed without reason; the easiness of such a thought, that he might somehow have been allowed to know her so intimately, made him smile. Wondering whether she’d gone to take a bath—trust Phryne to find the only inexpensive hotel in Paris with both a tub and shower en suite—he climbed out of bed. He briefly wondered whether he should grab a robe, but chances were high that if she was bathing she’d lure him into joining her and it was hardly as if he had any modesty to protect at this point.

She wasn’t in the bathroom. She might have gone out for breakfast, then, or for an early walk. He turned on the shower, leaving it to warm up while he walked back into the bedroom; perhaps she’d left a note.

There was a bit of paper on the writing desk; Jack crossed the room, wondering what had woken her up this early. He barely glanced as he grabbed it; the paper was stiff, his mind processing the unexpected sensation before his consciousness did and leaving him with a sudden sense of dread.

It was a ticket. His ticket, for the ship home from Marseille tomorrow afternoon. _Just_ his ticket. He glanced down on the desk where the ticket had sat—perhaps she’d taken them out of her bag for some reason, he tried to rationalise, knowing she would not. No second ticket for the boat, but there was one for an overnight train that evening.

Glancing behind himself, Jack realised that Phryne’s bag was gone as well, and he felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. A note. She would have left a note, certainly. Nothing on the desk, so he dropped to his hands and knees to check beneath.

And it was in some nondescript hotel in Paris, naked and on his knees, that he realised that—for the second time in his life—he had driven away the woman he loved.

He rocked back onto his feet and stood, grabbing his robe to wrap around himself. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, running his hands over his face.

She’d left. Of course she had. He’d been a fool to imagine that she wouldn’t, really; Phryne Fisher was many things, but she had always been honest about her romantic proclivities. _Come after me_ had been a dream, for both of them. A vain hope. An honest attempt, but futile. He stood and began to pace the room.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—go after her this time. He wasn’t a fool; he could read the message in the manner of her absence. She was done, and unwilling to even tell him why. He clenched his fists and released them, breathing heavily. Of all the cowardly ways to go about it! It completely dismissed what they had been, before it all became complicated; he had believed in that, at least, in their friendship and professional partnership. And now he was merely another _old friend_ , to be sent off with minimal fuss. He hadn’t even warranted a goodbye.

He yanked his valise from beneath the bed, tossing it open and beginning to throw his clothes into it with little regard for neatness. He’d go to Marseille, see if he could exchange the first class suite for a room that was more suitable. He had carried a small notebook and pen with him, mostly out of habit, and as he placed them into the case’s inner pocket, he felt a scratch of metal.

Her grandmother’s pin.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the bed. Pulling the piece of jewelry out of the pocket, he held it up to the weak winter sunlight. He’d forgotten he had it, to be honest; they’d been so caught up in everything else—the teasing and the sex and the sheer relief of being together after so much restraint—he’d never returned it. 

He laid the pin aside and sunk his head into his hands; he’d been a coward. And it didn’t excuse her leaving this way by any stretch of the imagination, but he found that the anger had dissipated in favour of his own guilt; he had not been himself since they’d arrived in France, and he certainly hadn’t been the sort of man that could keep the attentions of a woman like her. That _deserved_ to keep the attentions of a woman like her.

Giving a disgusted sigh, he stood and headed to the bathroom, where the shower was still running. The hot water was nearly gone, but he quickly stepped beneath the shower head and soaped his body and hair. She was gone. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d been left—Rosie had had the courtesy to tell him where she was going, at least, but then again there was a difference between a decade-long marriage and… whatever he and Phryne had deluded themselves into thinking they had. Tilting his head back, he allowed the now-cold water to rinse his hair. He wondered whether enough grovelling would stroke her ego enough to bring her back, even briefly, then felt ashamed of such derisive thoughts. She was not cruel, and it was not fair to act as if she was—she was self-serving, perhaps, in a strictly literal sort of way he was loath to attach a judgment to, but not cruel. 

Turning off the taps and stepping out, Jack shaved and headed back into the bedroom, circling around the same few thoughts—she had left, he had driven her away, it was inevitable. Pathetic. Drying himself off, he spotted the pin once more and considered his options; he couldn’t keep it in good conscience, and he had no idea where Phryne had gone. He was still musing it over as he dressed—he hadn’t realised he’d selected his three-piece suit until he was knotting the tie; it was neat, precise, punctilious. The pomade came next, combing his hair into compliance. When it was done he sighed, settled on a course of action.

He pulled the pen from the valise where he’d tossed it, then sat at the small writing desk and took some hotel stationery. A letter. He dated it with precision, wondered how to address her—Miss Fisher, of course; it seemed so formal for what they had briefly been, but then again it had been a _formality_ but never formal. It was the name he tossed at her even as she teased him from his reserve, a final holdout against her sheer audacity, but there had been an intimacy to it as well. Oh, she had been Phryne in the dire moments, when he forgot the games they played, but in truth he would remember her as the indomitable Miss Fisher.

The next words were harder; he wanted very much to reprimand her for her casual callousness. Wanted to apologise for his own part in how things had played out. Wanted to explain, if only a little, that he had not known the weight of Paris. That he had tried to shield her from it; unwelcome, perhaps, and most definitely poorly executed, but he had never meant to lay it on her shoulders. He said none of it, in the end; he settled on a brief note explaining that the pin had been in his valise and he was returning it, free and clear of any constabulary obligation, and then wished her well on future endeavors.

When it was written, he obtained a small box from the front desk of the hotel and placed both letter and pin inside. He was uncertain where to send it—at worst he could return it to her household, who would know where to pass it on, but it was less than ideal to carry it for that long. Still, he’d think of something. There were a good six hours before his train.

He looked at the ticket again, and chuckled despite himself. She had not stranded him, at least; would never be so cruel as that. Self-preserving—understandably and unapologetically so—but not cruel. He picked up the small piece of paper, smiling slightly despite the pain in his chest. It was a courtesy, he supposed, to ensure he had a route home; only Phryne would think that an overnight on the obscenely expensive _Le Train Bleu_ —the setting of Mrs. Christie’s latest Poirot novel, mystery inescapable between them—was the most appropriate way to go about it.

—————

Phryne leapt from her plane, patting the wing affectionately before taking off her gloves and approaching the airfield attendant, Roy.

“Miss Fisher, I wasn’t aware you were coming!” he said.

“Last minute change of plans,” she said lightly.

“You didn’t dump your companion over the Channel, did you?” teased Roy.

“No, nothing like that,” Phryne said dismissively, waving her gloves towards the plane. “We just decided to part ways—he had commitments in Australia and I found I didn’t fancy the boat ride. Thought I’d bring her home, have Christmas with my family.”

The lie felt flat even to her; Melbourne was her family, and she’d hoped to be back in time to celebrate with them, regardless of Jack. But she needed space and time; flying back was still an option, though after her previous trip she hoped to avoid it, and might even get her back by her birthday. She could not face Melbourne just yet, not with one part of it taken from her—by choice, but still a loss—so suddenly. But she’d be fine. Soon. Eventually, at least.

“Could you call me a taxi?” she asked. “I’ll wheel her into the hangar.”

“Of course, miss,” Roy said, leaving to do just that.

Phryne brought the plane under cover, running her post-flight checks before grabbing her bag and heading outside to wait for the taxicab. When it arrived she slipped into the back, wondering briefly where to direct the driver. She finally gave her parents’ address, settling against the seat.

She was doing the right thing. The lightening of her chest the further she got from Paris told her that, if she’d had any doubt. Which she didn’t, of course. Jack would want commitment, and while she had nothing against the idea in theory she found that she wasn’t the sort who practiced it. And certainly not when it came as it had, accompanied by sharp words and silences—precursors to dark moods, anger, control. And although heaven knew Jack had a temper on occasion, he was no Henry—Phryne was not stupid enough to think that—but it was more than she… 

No, this was better for both of them.

The cab arrived outside her parents’ townhouse, and Phryne tipped him generously. Then she climbed out, grabbing her bag, and mounted the stairs to the front door and knocked.

“Miss Fisher!” the maid, Emma, exclaimed as she opened the door. Then she regained her composure. “I wasn’t aware you were returning. I’ll have your room made up immediately. Your mother has just taken tea in the parlour—I’ll fetch a second cup for you, if you’d like.”

Phryne smiled at the nervous girl, then removed her hat.

“Please,” she said, fluffing her hair. “My return was quite sudden, but I would appreciate the room. And the tea. And some biscuits, if you have them.”

Then she headed towards the parlour. Her mother was reading a newspaper as she sipped her tea, and Phryne sighed loudly to introduce herself. Her mother looked up, startled.

“Phryne! What are you doing back, my girl?”

Phryne laughed lightly and sunk into an armchair.

“Nothing dire, Mother! It occurred to me that with my sudden departure and very… whirlwind schedule before then, I hadn’t really made sure that you and Father were settled.”

Her mother raised a very disbelieving eyebrow, but accepted the teacup Emma brought in and poured Phryne her tea.

“Your inspector didn’t come with you?”

“He’s not _my_ inspector,” Phryne said defensively, “and he had a job to get back to.”

Margaret nodded, then pursed her lips slightly.

“And you felt the need to return to check on your father and me?”

“You know how Father is with money. And I know some of it was recovered from Eugene, and I’ve paid for the house so that’s one less thing to worry about, but…”

“Phryne, your father and I are fine. We’re happy. You set up a bank account with funds that only I can access, not that I expect to need it. There is nothing that could not be handled via a letter.” 

“Fine,” Phryne huffed. “Faced with the idea of going back to the tiny little Antipodes, I decided that London society was far preferable.”

“Hmm, yes. I did always prefer English winters to Australian summers,” Margaret said dryly, “and it’s not as if you have friends and a profession back there. Biscuit?”

Phryne snatched the ginger nut from the proffered plate and drank her tea.

—————

Case packed and with nearly two hours before his train, Jack realised what to do with the package. He went to the hotel reception, asking to make an international call—the sound was tinny when a dusty voice came down the line.

“Good afternoon. Fisher residence, Davies speaking.”

The Fisher’s butler hadn’t much cared for Jack, or at least did not seem to have the cheerful affinity for his presence that Mr. Butler had. A twinge, the awareness that he would never again enter Wardlow for a hot meal or a nightcap, that the friendships he had found within—not only Phyne herself, but in the fondness he had for the new Mrs. Collins, the pleasant evenings he had passed with Mac, the grudging respect between himself and her cabbies—would be lost to him.

“It’s Inspector Robinson speaking, Mr. Davies. Would it be possible to speak with Lady Fisher please?”

“I will see if she’s available,” said the butler. “One moment.”

When the telephone was picked up again, it was the booming voice of Margaret Fisher.

“Jack!”

“Lady Fisher—”

“I’ve already told you to call me Margaret,” she scolded, and Jack couldn’t help but think that she would be rescinding the offer in approximately thirty seconds. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m afraid I have a favour to ask. Miss Fisher—”

“Arrived here an hour ago,” she cut in, saving him from coming up with an explanation.

“Ah, good,” Jack blustered. “I’m afraid she left something behind, and I wanted to make sure that it made its way back to her.”

“What is it?”

“Umm, a brooch. I believe it was her grandmother’s.”

“That hideous swallow one?” she asked bluntly. “Yes, you better send it directly—I’ve never known her to let that out of her sight. Brought it to war and all. Never understood the appeal of it myself.”

Jack bit his tongue. The temptation to point out that she’d needed to _steal_ the blasted thing to keep it safe was overpowering. The fact that Miss Fisher was the woman she was—warm and generous and loving, self-reliant but not cynical or cold despite her experiences—was a testament to her natural strength and resilience. He both admired and loved her for it, aware how easy it was to lose that vivacity; it made her leaving sting all the more though, that she had been unable to extend him even the courtesy of her kindness. But she was safe in England, at least, and that was something. He confirmed the Fisher address and promised to send the brooch off immediately, then said a final goodbye to Lady Fisher.

Getting the address of the nearest post office, Jack took a brief walk along the now familiar streets of Montparnasse to send off the package, then returned to the hotel room a final time. He studied it carefully, filing away every memory; it would sting, in the interim, to remember the exact place he’d finger-fucked her against a wall, where they’d made slow and lazy love in the bathtub, where they had simply lain together to read their own books, but eventually they would become memories of an adventure. And while the gamble had not won him what he had hoped for, it would eventually be worth it. Eventually.

He grabbed his bag and headed to the train station. _Le Train Bleu_ was splendid; even in the dull winter light the dark blue of the engine gleamed, and the gold trim managed not to look tawdry. He felt somewhat foolish as he showed his ticket, making his way to the sleeper car with his compartment. Each car had a personal attendant, which was utterly absurd; the wealthy had very different priorities to a police officer, that was for certain. Still, he’d packed a small amount of food, to save him from having to change for dinner, and he had a book to entertain him until he was ready to sleep. And the compartment proved to be very comfortable indeed; he fell into a deep sleep by nine o’clock, and didn’t wake until the attendant knocked on his door just before they arrived in Marseille the following morning.

Disembarking at the station, he immediately sought out the docks; thankfully, his ship was already in port. He considered exchanging his cabin for something more appropriate for a single man of his station, then realised the first class suite had other advantages. Namely that, with some careful inquiries, he was able to board hours before the rest of the travellers and did not need to drag his valise around the French city.

He stood in the suite, surrounded by an opulence that he’d come to associate with Miss Fisher; outrageous and ostentatious, yet still somehow and always welcoming. Leaving his case by the door, he stepped further inside to sit in one of the plush armchairs.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes; against his eyelids a battery of images hit him. Phryne draped over the chaise, teasing him until he crossed the room to kiss her silent; making slow love on the plush rug for most of the night, and one of them eventually complaining about the discomfort; the luscious and inviting bed he spied through the open door to one of the bedrooms. He should have had it. Had almost had it. Just a few weeks longer, to memorise all the marks on her skin, to learn what components made up her scent, to somehow find enough of her to sate him for the rest of his life.

He didn’t even notice when he began to cry.

—————

Phryne stared at the package in her hands, a Paris postmark and familiar writing on the paper, and pressed her lips together. Opening it was, of course, the only option; despite the early hour, she poured herself a whiskey. Then she carefully unfolded the paper, revealing a small box. Inside was a note, and her grandmother’s swallow pin.

_Miss Fisher_ , it began, _I regret that I was unable to return this to you in person. I rather forgot it was in my valise until this morning..._

Damn him. It was a perfectly cordial letter; no requests to explain her actions, no recriminations or chastisement. Not that she had expected any. The only indication of deeper sentiment was the hesitant marks at the beginning of the note, as if he’d intended to write an entirely different message.

Returning the note to the box, she picked up the pin. It was slightly larger and heavier than the one from Jack—that one sat in her jewelry box, waiting for the moment that it became a mere reminder of a pleasant fling—and almost gaudy in its ornateness. As a child she’d dreamt of a chance to wear such a treasure; she gave a small, lopsided smile, her gaze slightly hazy through the tears.

“He sent it then?”

Phryne looked up to find her mother leaning against the doorway.

“Pardon?”

“Your inspector. He telephoned the other day, to make sure that you’d been in touch and to ask if I’d make sure that got back to you.”

“How was he?” 

Her mother pushed off the doorway and came into the room, sitting across from Phryne.

“He sounded worried, but I told him you hadn’t been kidnapped for ransom in defense of the king or anything.”

Phryne laughed softly.

“Was that ever a likely situation?”

“With you, Phryne? Absolutely.”

Phryne twirled the pin in her fingers absently, thinking.

“Do you know the interesting thing about swallows?” her mother asked, nodding towards the pin. “They mate for life. It’s why your Grandfather Fisher bought that for your grandmother.” 

“And I suppose that’s meant to be helpful?” Phryne asked dryly; the edge of the wings dug into her hand when she clenched it. “A sign from the universe that I should, what, subjugate myself because I made the mistake of getting emotionally involved?”

Margaret shook her head.

“No. Swallows mate for life. People…” she hesitated for a moment, looking for the right words. “People need to make a conscious choice, darling.”

“That might just be the first sensible advice you’ve ever given on the topic.”

“Phryne, I don’t know what went on in Paris, and I’d never presume to tell you what to do—”

“That _would_ be a first.”

“I know that you think I’m a fool for taking your father back. I wish you could see the man I do.”

Phryne rather thought that the man her mother saw was an illusion. She’d turned a blind eye to warning signs once and regretted it; she’d never do it again. Her mother was still droning on.

“Darling, what your father and I have wouldn’t suit you, I’m sure, and I’m not suggesting that it should. But that’s not what your inspector wants—god help him, he knows who you are and he loves you because of it, not despite it.” 

“I have no interest in that sort of love,” Phryne said reflexively.

“What sort of love is that? One where he came across half the blasted world because he’d never ask you not to go?”

“Grand gestures are easy.”

Heaven knew her father had done more than his fair share over the years.

“And the way that man looks at you?”

“Admirers are plentiful.”

That look of fond exasperation was Jack’s alone.

“His tolerance for your investigative dabblings?”

He did more than tolerate. Still, she could give that up and find other ways to be useful, or move base. Sydney perhaps—she’d be sorry to lose Dot, but Jane was already attending a boarding school there and Mr. Butler had family in the area. Surely there had to be another policeman worthy of her assistance.

“Mother, I appreciate—”

“Phryne, I love you. But I have never known you to pine.”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “I’m hardly pining. In fact, I really must get ready for lunch.”

She stood, placing the pin and note back in the box and tucking the box into the pocket of her cardigan. She kissed her mother’s cheek and reassured Margaret that she was absolutely fine, then headed upstairs to her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she took a deep breath and tried to settle her suddenly warring instincts.

Jack was… Jack. Quiet where she was loud, cautious where she was bold; it suited them though. He had been one of her closest friends for over a year, had seen her on the very worst days of her life and never wavered, would rather remove himself from her life than ask her to change—a poor choice, but well intentioned. And while he could be closed off, caustic in self-defense, he had never injured her. He would never hurt her by choice, any more than she would hurt him; she had left for many reasons, but never fear of _him_. Even as she had fled she had trusted that, trusted that he would know any hurt she caused was unintended but necessary. 

He was a man who had seen the same things she had, and survived; things she believed she could speak to him about— _had_ spoken to him about in the past, though words were often extraneous. How strange that neither of them had spoken when they were in the midst of it, retreating to silence and barbs and lies. There was nobody she would have rather faced Paris with, nobody she would trust with that vulnerability—to be vulnerable, and to witness her own—as much as she had trusted him. But it had been too raw, too close to the surface, and they had turned away instead; too scared, perhaps, that they would see their own weaknesses in the other’s pain.

She would miss his friendship immensely, the warmth of his eyes over the draughts board, the tilt of his mouth as he related some story or another. Her… other feelings had surprised her, first in developing and then in their intensity; no doubt they would pass, but at too high a cost.

She sat on the edge of her bed— _his side_ , a treacherous voice supplied—and took out the package again, rereading the note within. Her mind wandered, wondering where he had sat when he wrote it. The small desk in the hotel room, most likely; he’d sat there the first night to write a few letters to Australia, informing people of his plans. She remembered how she had come up behind him, still slightly shaken by the appearance of René’s work in that shop, and run her hands down his waistcoat, dropped her head to the crook of his neck just to breathe him in, lured him away from a half-written letter to make love.

She missed him. She missed him, and she could remain in England, wait for it to pass, return to her previous preferences and have a marvelous time doing so; she did not _need_ him, after all. But there was another option: she could stand her ground, refuse to lose what they had without putting up a damned good fight. 

_Nothing that matters is easy_. She’d been so flippant when she’d said it to him, back at the beginning of their acquaintance, expecting him to chide her for her impulsiveness. Instead they had shared a drink, a smile, a conversation; she hadn’t known then the man he would prove to be. A friend, a partner, a steady voice of reason when she needed it. 

Phryne stood up. She had a flight to plan.


	7. Chapter 7

## Part III: Chapter Seven

* * *

Aden, the little town built on rocks, came into view around 10 am. Jack had been standing near the prow of the ship, watching the rocky coast of Yemen pass by as he’d thought. His week-long journey had so far been uneventful—with the facilities of a first class cabin, he’d found it easy to retreat to solitude; after London and then Paris, he relished the time alone. If he found he desired company he would head towards the pool for a few laps, or go ashore when they arrived at a port, or make himself sociable for the evening. He could almost forget that the company was lacking one very obvious component.

He hadn’t heard from her—not a surprise, but he had fancied that she would telegraph him to let him know the parcel had arrived at least. He missed her. The knowledge that his taciturn behaviour had been enough to make her feel the need to flee warred with his irritation with how she had done so; no note, no explanation, just gone in the night.

The time at sea had helped with that; the first day he had wallowed in melancholy, allowing himself time to work through the whirlwind of the previous month. On the second, he’d been rather struck by the thought that running—into the war, away from Paris afterwards, throwing herself from wild adventure to wild adventure—had been her safe harbour for most of her life; in that light, her actions were no longer a surprise, however much they stung. By the third day, he had found his own rhythm of mostly-solitary travel, and enjoyed the peace that came with it.

The boat stopped away from the shore—excursions to the town came via motor launch-style boats. Jack quickly paid his fare and climbed aboard. There were gardens in Yemen he’d like to see; there was something pleasing about the idea of anything green in such a barren landscape, and he’d been unable to go ashore on his journey to England. He had no intention on missing it a second time.

Once the boat was full it made the short journey to the shore; Jack stepped onto the jetty, squinting in the bright sunlight.

“You know, Jack, I did say that you’d need a hat that breathes.”

He spun around, saw her standing only a short distance away; white trousers and a light pink blouse—both loose-fitting and therefore cool, an enormous straw hat, and round sunshades like the ones she had worn on the beach in Queenscliff nearly a year earlier. Even her lipstick was impeccably applied, despite the intense heat. She was also holding a man’s straw hat, a quiet smirk to her mouth.

“Miss Fisher?”

His first instinct was to close the gap between them and kiss her senseless; it was only barely overruled by the voice of common sense wondering what the hell she was doing there, and whether he’d managed to strike his head on something and was hallucinating.

“How many other women do you have bringing you millinery?” she said, sashaying towards him; before he could protest, she had swapped his fedora for the hat in her hand. “There. Much better. Now, aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“Phryne…”

“Just kiss me, Jack.”

His hand came to rest on her waist, his thumb slipping beneath the hem of her blouse unintentionally; she paused at his touch, lips parted slightly. Jack kissed her, a tentative caress of his lips, then pulled away.

“Phryne… I can’t—you can’t just show up and expect me to…”

“Forgive me?”

“You disappeared,” he said, voice terse. “In the middle of the night. With no warning, no note…”

“Which was wrong of me.”

He laughed harshly.

“You think?”

Her arms folded across her chest, fedora bobbing at her elbow.

“I _wasn’t_ thinking.”

“Well maybe you should have,” he snapped, then winced. “I know I wasn’t… easy to deal with. There were a lot of memories in Paris I didn’t expect to have, and I behaved like an absolute arse at times. And if I could go back and change that, I would. But what you did… that showed a complete disregard for our friendship, if nothing else. I can understand wanting to leave; I just wish you’d told me why.”

She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear with one hand, and glanced downward.

“I had to go, Jack,” she said quietly.

“A note. I didn’t need a novel on what went wrong—I’m quite sure I could figure that out for myself—but ‘Jack, it’s been fun but I won’t be returning to Melbourne with you after all’ or… something, _anything_ , to let me know.”

“If I’d tried to tell you, I never would have gone,” she confessed, her voice so soft he nearly missed it. “And I _needed_ to go. Do you think this was easy for me? Do you think I wanted to hurt you? Or to leave one of the best partnerships I’ve ever had?”

“If it was that important, you should have fucking _stayed_ , Phryne,” he said; the barely controlled anger in his voice took him aback.

Phryne merely looked up at him; the sunshades had slipped down her nose enough that he could read the expression of steely determination in her eyes.

“I’m never going to be… conventional, Jack. I’m probably never going to be easy. But this? Me, flying all the way to fucking Yemen? This is me _staying_ , the only way I know how.”

He shook his head, ran his hand over his mouth as he tried to think. Phryne stepped closer, touched his cheek.

“We walked away from this once,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to do it again.”

His mouth was suddenly on hers, hot and desperate as they kissed; the brims of their hats bumped and his fell off. Before he could stop to retrieve it, she hummed against his mouth and pushed herself flush against him—Jack caught the small of her back to keep her there—and he forgot about anything but the feel of her.

When they pulled apart, both of them were panting heavily and her lipstick was smudged.

“You lost your hat,” she laughed.

“Sod the hat,” he growled, grasping her hips to pull her towards him once more.

“I _bought_ that hat!” she protested; he could feel her wide smile against his lips. “And besides, you’ll need it where we’re going.”

He withdrew again, just enough to meet her eyes, and opened his mouth to tease her that she seemed awfully certain of the outcome; there was the barest hint of worry on her face though, and he pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose instead.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” she said, taking one of his hands and tugging him off the jetty—pausing long enough to retrieve the hat—and towards a motor car. “We need to talk and I thought… just come see.”

She drove them past men with camels and white mosques and eventually the airfield she had flown into.

“It’s an RAF base, technically, but they accept civilian aircraft as well. I’ve sold the plane to one of the men—she wouldn’t make the flight to Australia. I figured I still had the ticket from Marseille, and they wouldn’t have sold off the cabin when you were there, and if… well, there’s always boats coming through here if not.”

Since the only thing more dangerous than Phryne’s driving was likely to be her driving while he kissed her, he wisely remained silent, merely smiling in understanding when she glanced at him. A few minutes later they arrived at their destination. Jack stared in disbelief as she turned to pull something from the back seat.

“The gardens?”

“You wanted to see them,” she said simply, pulling both the picnic basket and the blanket that covered it into the front seat with them. “It should be quiet and we can… talk, about what went wrong and what we can—” she huffed in frustration. “I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing here.”

Jack laughed. "You think I do? They don't exactly hand down rules for this sort of thing. Not that I've ever known you to follow the rules."

She smiled at that, and leant forward for another kiss.

"I love you," he said, one hand cradling her head. "And I know it's the worst possible time to say so, but... I do. We can try to figure out the rest."

In the space of a few seconds her face changed, through horror at such a declaration to soft affection, settling on her own silent statement.

“Picnic, then?” she asked.

He climbed out of the car and met her by the driver’s side door, then offered his arm; she wrapped one hand around his bicep and led him towards the garden.

—————

Phryne was grateful that she had arrived in Aden the previous day—it was cutting it close, and she’d had no alternative plan in place if she had missed the boat—especially as it allowed her to scout out the gardens and make arrangements. She quickly led Jack to the far edge of the garden, where a tree native to the nearby archipelago of Socotra had been brought over for careful cultivation.

“It’s a dragon blood tree,” she said, spreading the blanket beneath it. “The sap is used as a dye, amongst other things, because it’s a lovely rich red. I can’t imagine the work that’s gone into growing it here—the environment is completely wrong.”

Jack sat on the blanket, patting the ground beside him and opening the basket to see the food within.Then he glanced up at the tree’s canopy, a dense network of branches with leaves on top that created an almost mushroom-like shape.

“Sometimes it’s the unexpected things that are worth the effort,” he said conversationally.

Taking a seat beside him, Phryne nudged his shoulder with hers.

“Worth the effort?”

His hand touched the small of her back, just briefly.

“Very much. Are you hungry?”

When she nodded he began to pull food from the basket, an eclectic mix of English and local fare that could be eaten with their fingers. Uncertain where to start with the necessary conversation, she asked how the boat journey had been.

“Quiet,” he said wryly.

She tilted her head.

“Is that good or bad?”

“I missed you,” he said, reaching out to trace the back of her hand. “But it was very nice.”

Her body relaxed.

“Oh thank god,” she said. “I enjoy your company. Very much. Very, very much. But…”

“The idea of spending every waking and sleeping moment with me has lost its charms?”

She giggled in relief.

“I know we were just trying to make the most of our limited time—”

“But it’s not limited. Or it doesn’t have to be limited,” he said, and the gentle earnestness made her stomach flip.

She laced her fingers through his, staring at the difference between them.

“That terrifies me.”

“That we have as much or as little time as we decide?”

“The idea that there’s no… definite ending. That I don’t want it to end, and that I might not realise that it has to. That I won’t know the difference between compromising and giving myself up.”

“I would never ask you to—”

“I know. But it would be so easy…”

He squeezed her hand.

“I know it’s not much, Phryne, but I think… I think I can be more liberal-minded—”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t offer that. I appreciate it. I do. But if that’s an option I will take it, and I will use it to hide when things get hard.” She lifted her eyes from their joined hands to meet his gaze. “I’m staying, Jack.”

His free hand came up to pull her close, and he kissed her gently. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“For as long as we’re both happy?”

“Which I intend to be a very long time,” she said. Then she smiled, breaking away to pull something else from the picnic basket. “Try this.”

She held the wedge of pastry out with her fingers; he leant forward with the quickest flash of a cheeky grin and took a bite, then groaned in appreciation.

“It’s _bint al-sahn_ ,” she said. “Yemen honey cake.”

“It’s delicious.”

“I’ve already begged the recipe off my host. You’ll have to come to dinner when we get home, see if Mr. Butler can replicate it.”

Then she popped the rest of the pastry in her mouth. Jack looked playfully put out, then peered into the basket.

“Is there any more?”

“Afraid not,” she said coyly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a delicate finger.

He chuckled as he kissed her again.

“Mmm, still tastes of honey,” he said. “What else is in that basket?”

When the meal was almost done and the sun was at its peak, making the day warm, a certain sort of drowsiness seem to come over them both. Phryne stretched her legs out and leaned back to rest on her arms. She could feel Jack’s attention on her, and smiled.

“You can ask, Jack.”

“How do you know there’s something I want to ask?” he countered.

He was always so careful, when it came to asking for things she may not want to give. It was a habit he would have to break, if they were to be successful.

“I know you well enough by now.”

She kept her eyes carefully averted, in the hopes that it would make it easier for him. He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

“Lady, should I lie in your lap?” he said, then sensed her confusion. “I mean my head in your lap?"

How peculiar—oh, _Hamlet_.

“I have no intention of being your Ophelia,” she said, “but please do.”

Maneuvering around, he came to rest his head against her thighs. Phryne looked down at him, an expression of quiet bliss on his features; she had not seen that look nearly often enough. She ran her fingers through his hair, loosening the wave he was so determined to tame.

“I missed you down there,” she said, and he laughed.

“I have to admit, so did I.”

She continued to stroke his hair. He was almost asleep when he spoke again.

“When I said that I didn’t come home the same man Rosie had married… I didn’t just mean the career. I was bitter, and angry, and so scared that if I let myself _feel_ angry I’d—I don’t know. That I’d never stop,” he confessed. “Being in Paris, I could feel that man coming back. And Rosie, she put up with it for so long while I ignored her; I focused on work instead, and when I was at home… I was not a good husband.”

“It’s not easy, going back after something like that.”

“No,” he agreed. “And by the time I had learnt how to cope with it, there wasn’t a marriage left to save. The horrid thing is, we would have stayed married if it wasn’t for that lack of ambition; she would have been miserable, and I would never want that for her. For anyone. But a marriage was for life, and I doubt either of us would have considered divorce. How ridiculous is that?” His eyes opened then, meeting hers; there was a hint of tears, even as he smiled slightly. “I wasn’t ready for Paris to be so… much.”

“I must admit that I have some idea how that feels,” she smiled ruefully down at him. “I hadn’t been back, either, you know. _La Ville-Lumière_ had more shadows than I realised. The war. René. It wasn’t you I was running from, in the end. But I won’t live waiting for your next dark mood.”

“No. God, no. I—”

She silenced him with a kiss.

“I know who you are, Jack. But that moodiness, never being certain whether you’d _be_ there with me—that was a side of you that I hadn’t really seen and I… panicked. Not just about that,” she admitted. “ _Neither_ of us came out of war unscathed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. And I know that it’s not your usual… “ she trailed off, drawing her finger down his jawline, coming to rest on his chin, a bittersweet smile on her face. “I need to _know_ though, when you feel like that. Neither of us is any good at asking for help, but I need to know. Just… a word, or something. Just say ‘Paris’ and I can walk away or help, whatever you need.”

“And you?”

Dear, sweet man. No wonder she loved him. She stroked his hair once more.

“I’ll say ‘Yemen’.”

—————

They dozed beneath the tree for nearly an hour, Jack’s head in her lap and her back against the trunk; eventually he stirred enough to turn his head to her and press a kiss against her stomach. The chaste action, so familiar and intimate, sent a tremor through her, and his eyes opened.

“Phryne?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, “just very thankful for swallows right now. We should head back into town.”

“But I’m so comfortable here,” he protested, nestling his head back into a comfortable position and closing his eyes. “I have no intention of moving in the foreseeable future.”

“We’ll miss the boat.”

“We’ll catch another.”

“And dinner.”

“I’m still full from lunch.”

“You’ll lose your job.”

“Who needs a job?” His smirk twitched.

“You do, if you don’t want to starve.”

“Mmm, but I have a positively delicious meal right here.”

“In public, inspector? You are daring.”

He groaned and sat up.

“You spoiled my fun.”

Phryne laid one hand on his neck, leaning in to catch the lobe of his ear with her teeth.

“I rather think I guaranteed your _fun_ , Jack. I hear the beds on board are enormous.”

He stood, extending his hand to help her up; when she was on her feet he pressed a quick kiss to her lips and packed away the last of the picnic. Offering his arm, they returned to the car and drove back to Aden. Phryne stopped outside the house of her host, to return the picnic basket and retrieve her luggage, and then they continued towards the tourist-centric shops and stalls near the jetty.

“We have a few hours before we need to be on the boat,” Phryne said, parking the car. “And while I’m certain we could find some way to entertain ourselves, perhaps a visit to the shops first?”

“Will I be prevailed upon to carry your purchases?”

She hummed and tapped her finger against her lips as if thinking, then gave a playful smirk.

“I saw some positively divine silk yesterday, and you do make a charming sort of pack horse…”

“I see,” Jack teased. “I’m nothing but a convenient method of transportation.”

Phryne leant across the seat to kiss him soundly.

“You, Jack, are anything…” she grinned wickedly, “including a convenient method of transportation.”

They spent the next few hours going from shop to shop. Phryne purchased a bolt of red silk—dyed with dragon’s blood resin—as well as several shawls and scarves. Then she pulled Jack into another shop, selecting one of the items and holding it up to his face.

“I thought I said fan feathers wouldn’t work for me, Miss Fisher,” he said dryly.

“Pshaw! I think they suit you rather well. These ones, for example—” she held up a crimson pair “—are the exact colour of your complexion right now.”

He spluttered a little, and Phryne laughed. She hadn’t realised that feather fans were a popular item aimed at tourists until she arrived, but the discovery had pleased her immensely. She purchased two sets—the crimson, and a white pair—and waved them in Jack’s direction flirtatiously

“Whatever are you going to do with two sets?” he asked.

“I never said they were for _me_.”

They were—the red were intended to go with the red silk, which Phryne planned to have made into an evening gown for a dinner party her aunt was throwing a few weeks after their return to Melbourne—but it was so fun to tease Jack, to know that he would respond with a witty rejoinder or an endearing sort of adoration.

“Surely not Mrs. Collins?” he said in mock-horror. “The woman is an angel, but I fear you might kill my constable if you were to… dress her as such.”

“Hmm,” Phryne said noncommittally, “perhaps they’re for Hugh. Shall we head back to the boat?”

—————

An hour and a rather adamant conversation with a porter later, they were in their cabin. Phryne examined the parlour while Jack took her purchases into the bedroom—it was a decent-sized suite with two bedrooms, for appearances’ sake. It would also give them another place to retreat if one of them required solitude, which was quite advantageous. The furniture was all secured to the floor, leaving Phryne to adjust her plans; if Jack sat on the chaise and she used the existence of the low table to her advantage… well, she’d figure it out. Improvising would be half the fun.

Jack returned then, and Phryne lured him over to the chaise with a crooked finger and naughty smile. When he had taken a seat, she swung into his lap, working on his tie and buttons as they kissed; he made a deep, greedy groan as she moved her lips to his neck.

“We’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner,” he protested, his hands clasping around her waist to keep her exactly where she was.

“I need to change then,” she said, grinding against him lightly and turning her attentions to his ear. She made a production of glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. “But I have a few more minutes.”

With the time available, there was little point in anything more than kissing and some very affectionate fondling—how had she gone over a week without his hand on her breast? It was ridiculous—but they took advantage of opportunity nevertheless. They were finally broken apart by a knock at the door; Phryne’s lipstick was all over Jack’s face—again!—and they were both breathing heavily, but Phryne sprung from his lap and laughed, then leant over and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Lipstick,” she explained, motioning to his mouth and handing the handkerchief over. “Get the door, I’ll get changed.”

Then she headed towards their bedroom; she could feel his eyes following her the entire way.

Once inside with the door shut, she carefully regarded herself in the mirror. Her face was flushed, her hair in disarray, a slightly dazed look in her eyes; she looked thoroughly well-loved. And rather blindingly, stupidly happy.

She quickly unbuttoned her blouse, then shimmied out of her trousers. A change in undergarments, she thought, trying to remember what she had brought with her; she’d left the packing to her mother’s maid in her hurry, and her wardrobe was not quite up to the task. After a moment’s thought, she rifled through Jack’s clothes for a clean shirt—which she rolled to the elbows—and a tie. A little bigger than was ideal, but it did marvelous things for her legs and the material was thin enough that the… relevant body parts were suggested through it.

“Phryne?” Jack’s voice came through the door. “Why has dinner been delivered? I thought—”

A quick sweep of lipstick and grabbing the white set of fan feathers, she opened the door. His eyes immediately widened.

“Dinner and a show, Jack,” she said lightly. “So sit.”

He complied, a look of slightly befuddled amusement on his face. It was endearing, the way he sat on the edge of the chaise, waistcoat still unbuttoned and tie absent, watching. She held the fans in front of her body, giving them a little flutter, then peeked around one edge.

“Get _comfortable_ , Jack.”

He moved back in the seat, tilting his head slightly. Then he nodded and motioned for her to continue, a quiet, amused confidence on his face; it was… enthralling, to know that such a man enjoyed her vivacity, relished it in her. The newness of the feeling frightened her; she had never been the sort of allow fear to hinder her though, and damn if she’d start now.

She moved across the room, teasing and flouncing and promising so much with tantalising glimpses of leg, of sultry eyes, of ruby lips begging to be tasted; she was directly in front of him for the final reveal, a cheeky little wiggle of her arse—he actually groaned at that, but like a gentleman kept his hands to himself—and when she turned and stood before him like some dangerous angel, there was love and admiration and adoration mixed with the lust in his gaze.

“I believe that’s my tie, Miss Fisher,” he teased, when he found his voice.

“Is it?” Phryne asked innocently, tossing the fans aside and leaning forward to kiss him. “How peculiar. I was certain it was one of mine.”

His fingers deftly unknotted the silk, leaving it to hang loose as his hands drifted down to caress her breasts and trail across her ribs in an enticing hint of his desires.

Unwilling to draw it out further, she straddled his lap, fingers fumbling to unfasten his braces with the open waistcoat still in the way, and kissed him deeply; realising that she couldn’t do both, she pushed the waistcoat off, then the braces. Rising up on her knees, mouth still on his, she tugged at his trousers and smalls. He lifted himself up just enough for her to slide them over his ass and to his knees, then she resettled against his thighs once more. She rocked back and forth as they kissed, the friction enough to draw a low moan from her.

“Christ, Phryne,” he muttered, hands slipping beneath the shirt to rest against her hips. “Whichever poor bastard investigates my death is going to have a hell of a time finding the murder weapon.”

She dragged her teeth across his bottom lip.

“I missed that mouth,” she purred, tugging his hair lightly so she could kiss him with ease. “The cursing, the teasing, the way it feels against my body…”

His grip on her hips tightened and he pulled her closer, his cock pressing against her clit as he did so. She closed her eyes.

“Jack,” she mewled, moving against him, “god, Jack, keep—”

He shifted her away and she whined in protest. One hand slipped from her hip to stroke her softly; it was a poor substitute for his cock, but she pushed against him mindlessly, seeking the sensation.

“Tell me you have your device in,” he growled.

The question cut through the fog in her mind, and she opened her eyes. “What? Oh, god, yes. Of course. I’m not—”

His hand dropped to position himself, then held her steady as she sunk onto him—slowly, so she could savour the sensation. When he was fully seated she began to undulate, kissing him with the same rhythm she used to move above him.

“Jack!” she gasped when he thrust up to meet her.

“A good thing?” he asked, the self-satisfied smirk on his face making it clear he knew the answer.

“Again,” she demanded. _Thrust_. “Again.” _Thrust_. “Again!” _Thrust_. She was so sensitive, to the feeling, to the way he grunted, to his scent, all of it so sensitive—she wanted to break, could feel it so close as she tugged at his hair. “Again. Again! Againagainag—” she gave a wordless wail as she came, eyes clenching shut as the waves crashed through her.

He kept moving, drawing out her pleasure as he chased his own, lowered his mouth to suck at her nipple through his shirt, a second, harder orgasm hitting her when he did so. His arms held her close as he followed her into release. She could feel the aftershocks everywhere; in the clenched and shuddering muscles of her thighs, the trembling in her arms, the desperate panting, the exquisite near pain the absence of his softening cock left in her.

She rested her head in the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell their exertions had made. She pressed a kiss against his neck, feeling somewhat sleepy; now that all was righted, the exhaustion of the last few weeks was suddenly and keenly felt.

“Are you hungry?” he asked quietly.

She looked up. Oh, dinner.

“Not really,” she admitted. “Tired.”

“Thank god,” he groaned, sinking into the chaise back. “There’s nothing that won’t last if we go take a nap.”

She slid off his lap and stood; her legs were still trembling. Jack laid a steadying hand on her waist while she found her balance, then gave a soft grin.

“I’d offer to carry you,” he teased, “but I think I’m worse off than you are.”

She extended her hand to help him stand; glancing down, Phryne realised his trousers were still around his ankles and began to giggle.

“Oi!” he protested as he noticed the same thing, and it made her laugh harder.

He pulled them off quickly, then looked up at her. A cheeky grin was her only warning as he tugged her back down to the chaise.

“Just for that, Miss Fisher,” he said, teasing her neck with delicate nibbles, “I think I might just stay here.”

“I’m sure we can find some anatomical arrangement that is suitable for us both,” she replied, shifting to make room for his legs on the seat.

He turned obediently, so he lay parallel to the back, his head resting on the raised arm; Phryne wedged herself between the chaise and his body, throwing one leg over his.

“See?” she smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “Perfect.”

“I’m fairly certain I’ll end up pushed off, and if I don’t we’ll both suffer from hideous pins and needles,” he said dryly.

“Don’t be so horribly pessimistic,” she scolded.

“I never said I was intending to move, Miss Fisher.”

She huffed a laugh. “Well, that’s alright then.”

They lapsed into a warm, comfortable silence as they dozed. It was not as simple as it had seemed, standing in an airfield or a London parlour. But, oh, it was very much worth it.


	8. Epilogue

## Epilogue

* * *

To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.

—George MacDonald, _The Marquis of Lossie_

* * *

It was a cool Sunday morning in June, and Phryne was engaged in her second-favourite activity for that sort of weather.

“Mmm, Jack,” she groaned, lacing her fingers through his hair as he disappeared beneath the feather doona. “Yes, just there is—ahh, lovely.”

His mouth had just reached the curve of her hip, his hands spread across her thighs to part them, when there was a knock on the door.

“Telephone, miss,” said Mr. Butler, and Phryne was about to tell him she was at home to no one when he continued. “It’s a Mrs. Amy Jones for you. She says it’s urgent.”

Her hands dropped away from Jack’s hair.

“I’ll just be a moment,” she called, climbing out of the bed and grabbing a nightgown and robe. Then she pressed a quick kiss to Jack’s lips—he’d emerged from beneath the blanket to lie against the pillows once more—and promised to be back quickly.

Making her way downstairs, Phryne tried to remember the last time she’d spoken with Amy. It had to have been close to a year, easily, maybe longer. She picked up the receiver.

“Morning, darling,” Phryne said lightly, trying not to presume. “How are you?”

“I need help, Phryne.”

It seemed that when you went through hell with someone, social niceties lost their importance.

“Is he there?”

“He’s outside. I can’t talk today, but…”

“All day? No pub trips, or…?”

“No, not today.”

Phryne had planned for such a possibility, though it was less than ideal. Leaving it would give Amy time to change her mind, but it was unavoidable.

“Ring me tomorrow morning, once he’s left for work. I’ll arrange for a taxi to pick you up,” she said, her voice low. “Pack lightly so the neighbours don’t ask questions.”

“Thank you,” Amy said, and then hung up.

Phryne moved towards the stairs, pausing with a hand on the banister. Amy Jones—Amy Browning then—had been in the ambulance corps with Phryne, always ready with a bawdy quip and a shoulder to cry on. She’d married one of her soldiers on her return to Melbourne, a man named Robert that Phryne had never liked. With good reason, as it turned out; the marriage had been happy in the first few years, but eventually Phryne began to see the signs in Amy’s letters, even from Europe. Dark moods, excuses for why it wasn’t really his fault, contact going from monthly to erratic. Robert Jones was a mean bastard who enjoyed making his wife’s life a living hell.

The problem was, nobody could convince Amy.

When Phryne had returned to Melbourne she had ensured Amy had an escape route made available and waited, knowing nothing else would be useful. And now, finally, it seemed that Amy saw the situation for what it was. Phyne climbed the stairs, ignoring the slight tremble in her hands, and returned to her bedroom.

Jack was almost asleep, but he stirred as she opened the door. Dropping her robe to the floor, Phryne slipped into bed beside him.

“Telephone?”

“Just a friend, darling,” Phryne whispered, cuddling in close; his chest was warm and solid beneath her cheek. He exhaled softly, and she chuckled. “Go back to sleep.”

A hand came to rest on her hip, and she closed her eyes, grateful that he was there.

 

———

Monday morning, Phryne sent Cec and Bert to Amy’s home, a flat in Carlton, and arranged to meet them at a small bungalow she had purchased as an investment property. It wasn’t much, but it was furnished and had indoor plumbing, and it was safe.

Alone in the house and waiting impatiently, Phryne tried to pass the time by remembering. The first time she’d seen Amy was standing beside an ambulance in France, dragging on the end of a cigarette; she’d pushed off the van to greet Phryne, and they’d become fast friends.

The last time she’d seen Amy was at a charity fundraiser; Robert had kept one hand on her elbow most of the evening, clearly territorial even as he charmed half the room. She had followed Amy to the lavatory simply to talk to her and reiterate her offer, and had gotten a gentle rebuff in return.

Phryne had gone home alone that night, taking a long soak in her bath and trying to forget the look in Amy’s eyes when they met Phryne’s in the mirror, both of them using the pretense of fixing their powders; for just a second there’d been the fear of a wild animal in them, as Amy had realised she would be returning to him despite a chance to escape. Phryne had tried to forget what it had been like, that mixture of fear and certainty and some twisted feeling of love and obligation.

She gave herself a shake. Amy would be safe now. There was always the possibility Robert would get in touch with Phryne—and if he did, Phryne had no qualms about involving her personal policeman, if the gun didn’t do it—but it was more likely that he wouldn’t think of her at all. Phryne unpacked the basket of supplies Mr. Butler had produced as she’d left Wardlow, almost happy.

Half an hour later, there was a tentative knock on the door; Phryne opened it to see Amy, flanked by two cabbies carrying luggage.

“Through to the bedroom please, boys,” Phryne said, trying to keep her tone casual as she assessed her friend.

Amy was a head and a half taller than Phryne, and had always carried herself with confidence. It was incredible how much smaller she seemed, standing in the corridor of what was essentially a safe house. Her blonde hair was immaculate, her make-up not quite covering a split lip, sunshades obscuring what Phryne suspected was one hell of a black eye, and her entire demeanor turned inward as if to shy away.

Phryne hugged her tightly.

“You made it,” she said. “Allow me to show you around.”

———

A week later, Phryne disembarked from the tram and walked the few streets to the bungalow, pausing to glance around before slipping her key in the door. She had visited every day, for a few minutes or for hours; there had been no sign of Robert, at least, but Amy was struggling with the change nonetheless. Phryne hoped to convince her to come out for lunch. Turning the key, she padded inside.

“Amy?” she called.

No answer, and her friend wasn’t in the parlour. The kitchen, perhaps, and Phryne tried to ignore the unnatural silence of the home. She was merely worrying because she expected to; it was unlikely that Amy would leave without telling Phryne. The door to the kitchen was almost closed, and Phryne knocked rather than enter—it swung open slowly, revealing her friend at the table. _Slumped_ over the table.

Phryne rushed forward, to look for a pulse; the body was cold to the touch, and she pulled her hand away quickly. She tried to take note of the body, her mind refusing the process the images. Police. Jack. They could… yes.

She was back in the corridor, telephone in hand and halfway through the call before she realised it. Then she stepped back outside into the sunlight, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.

Fifteen minutes later, still leaning against the exterior wall, Phryne heard footsteps approaching and opened her eyes to see Jack and Hugh.

“Miss Fisher, this might be a first,” Jack said, tilting his head in a teasing manner. “‘I’m not sure the investigative restraint suits you.”

She smiled weakly.

“The body is in the kitchen,” she said, hating the tiny tremor in her voice that betrayed her roiling uncertainty.

“Collins,” he ordered, and Hugh moved inside. When they were alone, his expression softened. “Not just a tenant, I take it?”

She hadn’t mentioned the situation to him, a curious mixture of trying to protect Amy’s privacy and unwillingness to examine the occasional prickling fear the situation had left in her.

“Uhh, no. Amy and I were in the ambulance corps together. We hadn’t seen each other much since, even when I moved back to Melbourne—her husband thought I was a bad influence.”

To his eternal credit, Jack didn’t point out that she _relished_ being a bad influence.

“So what happened?”

“I was coming to see her, go out for lunch. She has—had—just left her husband, and it wasn’t easy for her. I thought…”

Jack nodded in understanding.

“Alright, Miss Fisher. I’ll need a formal statement, but for now should we go back in?”

The idea of returning was not so awful with Jack by her side, even if he had not so much as brushed his hand against hers. They did _try_ to remain professional. She smiled, a little more strongly.

“I’m not entirely certain it’s murder,” she said.

“But you think it might be?” he concluded.

“But I’d rather have you on the case regardless.”

He tilted his head slightly and said nothing. She led him through to the kitchen, where Hugh was examining the scene.

“Amy Jones,” she said, slipping into a formal detective persona without thought. “Forty-two, married with no children. Has been here for a week, after leaving her husband of eleven years. Found at 11:47—” Phryne had spied the time on the kitchen clock, the hands seared into her memory, “—by myself. No clear cause of death as yet, but I withdrew immediately to telephone the police.”

Hugh, bless him, could not read between the lines.

“Is there anyone who would wish her dead?” he asked.

“Well, I imagine Robert—her husband—wasn’t too pleased with the developments,” Phryne said bitterly, glancing around the kitchen to avoid staring at the sheet with her friend’s body beneath.

Her eyes fell upon the rubbish basket and her stomach churned. Stepping closer, she pulled on a pair of gloves and removed the box from the basket.

Chocolates. Amy’s favourites.

She dropped the box without meaning to, the cardboard thudding against the floor.

She wanted to run.

Jack caught her eye, and she took a deep breath.

“Test those for poison,” she said, indicating the box. “Robert used to work for a chocolatier.”

Words out of her mouth, she hurried out of the house and down the path, coming to stop beside the police motorcar. She breathed deeply, trying to regain control; her eyes pricked with tears and she wanted to scream, but found herself voiceless.

Jack had followed her outside, and touched her arm softly; Phryne drew away instinctively, and he pulled his hand back to give her space. She didn’t know how much he knew about her past; enough to draw some conclusions, certainly, but not the specifics. She didn’t like to talk about it, and he had never pushed her. Looking at him, she tried to… the words didn’t come, crowding in her throat until she thought she would choke.

“Yemen,” she managed.

It was their code, a way to ask for help when it all seemed overwhelming; they’d not needed to use it since it was implemented on a rather disastrous stay in Paris when he’d come after her. A million expressions seemed to cross his still face at once—confusion and then understanding, sympathy, a desire to fix the situation—but all he did was nod.

“What would you like me to do?” he asked.

_Stay. Leave. Tell me it isn’t true._

“Take me home?”

“Of course, Miss Fisher.”

 

———

Back at Wardlow, she gave Jack a wan smile as she climbed from the police motorcar; she paused at the gate to wave goodbye, but she didn’t hear the car pull away until the front door was open.

Mr. Butler took in her numb appearance.

“A drink, miss? Or shall I have Dorothy run you a bath?”

“No, Mr. B. I think I’ll go have a lie-down for an hour or two,” Phryne said, already heading for the stairs.

“Very well, miss.”

In her bedroom, Phryne quickly took off her dress, leaving her in her camiknickers, and lay on the bed. Staring at the ceiling, she tried to convince herself that she was wrong. Amy’s death was unfortunate, but natural causes could not be ruled out; sometimes these things happened without warning. A tragedy, but not murder.

She did not want to think about her first inklings of something wrong all those years before, the push and pull as she tried to help, the moments she had seen a spark in Amy’s eyes that said she wanted to escape even if she wasn’t ready yet, the tentative phone call, the long conversations over tea in the days that followed. Hearing all the things he had done, had taken and demanded and coerced. She did not want to remember leaning over the armchair to hug her friend the last time she had said goodbye, kissing her forehead, thankful that Amy had a place to turn in her time of need.

She did not want to remember, because then she would have to admit that she had failed.

Phryne rolled over to bury her face into her pillow and scream.

It was not fair. She didn’t _expect_ life to be fair, but she did expect to be able to force it into some _semblance_ of compliance. And then she cried. Cried for Amy’s death, and what her life should have been and what it was instead, for being too late, for all the women that she would not be able to save, for the ones that had had to save themselves, for how easily it could have been her. Eventually there were no tears left, and she fell asleep.

Some time later, she woke, feeling much more composed. She sat up, running a hand over her bob; a cup of tea was in order, and a change of clothes. She selected a simple blouse and a pair of trousers, comfortable enough for lounging, then headed downstairs. She stopped in the hall, her hand hovering over the telephone. Realising she was being absurd, she lifted the receiver and placed a call.

“City South Police Station—”

“Hello, Hugh!” Phryne said, infusing her voice with a brightness she didn’t quite feel as of yet. “May I speak with Jack please?”

Hugh mumbled an agreement, and a moment later there was a click and Jack was on the line.

“Miss Fisher.”

The welcome in his voice was so warm she almost lost her courage. But it was time.

“Come for dinner?” She asked, hating how uncertain she sounded. “Mr. Butler is making a roast.”

“Of course, Mi—Phryne. I’ll come over when my shift is done.”

———

She sat in the parlour, drinking a cup of tea and not watching the clock on the mantelpiece. She was painfully aware of the passing of time without it, unable to focus on anything else; earlier than expected she heard his knock and put her teacup down, heard Mr. Butler in the hall, a quiet exchange. Then Jack stood in the door of her parlour, waiting for her word.

“Hello Jack,” she smiled, rising and gliding towards him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him in for a kiss. “Come sit down.”

Holding him tight, she moved them back towards the chaise and sat down with her feet tucked beneath her and her head resting on his chest. His hand spanned her back and stroked gently. It was ridiculous how even his presence was a balm, the familiar staccato of his heartbeat replacing the gentle ticks of the mantel clock. No words were said; none were needed.

Eventually, Mr. Butler brought in some dinner that could be eaten in the parlour.

“I’m afraid there was a minor problem with the roast,” he said, a lie that everyone pretended to believe. “Very sorry, miss.”

And then he was gone again.

When the meal was done, Jack stirred slightly.

“Bath?”

Phryne nodded, still holding his hand as they made their way up the stairs and into her en-suite bathroom. He began to run the water, steaming and smelling of honeysuckle from her favourite salts. Then he tilted his head in question and she reached up to tug on his tie.

“Join me,” she requested, disrobing herself.

He undressed with the same attention to detail as he always did, then tested the water temperature before climbing into the tub. Phryne climbed in in front of him, coming to sit between his legs and resting her back against the warmth of his body; his arms came around to rest against her stomach chastely.

They sat that way for some time, water lapping against the sides at every shift.

“How was the case?” she asked.

A kiss was pressed behind her ear.

“He confessed. He brought the chocolates as a gift when she wanted to reconcile.”

It was not a surprise, but Phryne found herself gripping his forearm at the news. The sheer _cruelty_ behind it. Forcing herself to relax her fingers, she tilted her head backwards to peer up at Jack’s face; his jaw was clenched, his eyes tender. She kissed his cheek, then turned back away.

“I…” she hesitated.

“You don’t have to explain, Phryne.”

“I do. I want to, at least. Wash my back?”

He released his hold and she sat up. The bathwater was warm as he poured it over her back, following it with a sponge; the slow tenderness in his touch left breathless.

“The night I left Rene, he had… threatened me. He’d found the money I had been saving, called me a whore, said he would never let me leave.”

She felt his sharp intake of breath, but he said nothing, just continued to caress her back with the sponge.

“It took me months to stop looking over my shoulder. I was in another country, back to playing the Baron of Richmond’s daughter, and he still had that power over me. I…” her throat clenched.

Jack moved the sponge, the warmth of the water trickling down her arms.

“There were times I thought I’d go back to him. I thought nobody would ever love me the way he did.”

Jack pressed the softest of kisses to the crook of her neck in response.

“Your hair?” he asked.

Phryne wondered how he’d realised that was when she cut it—he’d seen the Sarcelle painting and would have known it was long—then realised that he was offering to wash her hair. She sunk beneath the water to wet it, then rose back up; his fingers began to massage the gardenia-scented shampoo into her hair.

“Your _fingers_ , Jack,” she purred languidly.

“Lean back so I can rinse it out.”

She tilted her head again, and he poured water over her scalp. Then he passed her the sponge without a word, and she quickly washed the rest of her body. Then she stood and turned, watching Jack’s pupils dilate as he took in her naked glory.

“Bed?” she asked, extending her hand.

He swallowed hard. “I’m not…”

“To sleep, Jack.”

He nodded slightly and took her hand to stand and step from the bathtub, wrapping a large towel around his waist and handing Phryne another. She dried off as best she could, then moved into the circle of Jack’s arms and looked up at him; no words would adequately convey how much his quiet support and acceptance meant to her in that moment, both leaving her earlier and being there now.

“Thank you, Jack.”

He smiled wryly, his eyes soft and safe and home, then cradled her head to kiss her.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse and his eyes closed. “For trusting me enough to…”

“Always,” she asserted, tugging softly at his hips to lead him to the bed. “Always.”


End file.
